


The Law of Diminished Returns

by daroos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Age Regression/De-Aging, Animal Transformation, Asgardian politics, Darcy is a BAMF in training, Edda - Freeform, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Family, Found Family, Friendship, Heimskringla, Jotun, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Pheels, Phil Needs a Hug, Phil is depressed, Sif being awesome, cat!barton, mini!phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 76,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroos/pseuds/daroos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn’t at all how Phil imagined coming back from the dead.  Between training a new analyst, feeling out brewing trouble in the Earth-Asgard relations, and trying to figure out why his most reliable asset can’t stand him any longer, Phil can’t make heads or tails of his second chance at life.  When Earth-Asgard relations come to a head they leave Phil stuck in the form of his ten-year-old self, Barton transformed into a housecat, and the Asgardian envoy stuck on Earth; everyone has to figure out how to come together and fix things, and the solution may be farther from home than anyone imagined. </p><p>Featuring mini!Phil, cat!Barton, an ensemble of Feels (and Jotun), and a journey from a solo to ensemble cast. 20% feels, 30% plot, 20% Asgardians/Jotun, 5% gratuitous mini!fic and 25% character arc by volume</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cinnamagen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cinnamagen).



> Firstly, [GO CHECK OUT ART!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1006793) Nicky Gabriela was the fabulous individual who picked my story out of a lineup and created something beautiful to accompany it. Send her some love if you like the art.
> 
> Second-firstly I would like to give the most heartfelt thanks to Selori for her absolutely amazing work as my editor and beta. She was unflagging in the face of ever-lengthening prose and an increasingly convoluted storyline. This fic would have fallen into the sea without her aid. Also thanks to Resha for her initial help with the outline and bare bones of this story. Her guidance was instrumental in the final form of the story. The last thanks/love goes to Ash, who planted this seed perhaps without knowing to what it would grow.
> 
> Secondly, this fic is choose-your-own smut rating. If you want it PG-15, stop at chapter 40. For R read through chapter 42. For hard R/NC17, read through the final chapter. If you just want the porn go directly to chapters 41, 42, and 43
> 
> Quick note on mythology: for the purposes of this story, Frigga and Freya are considered to be the same mythological figure representing the same Asgardian. This is in line with some mythology and out of line with other mythology, but just stating this up front so there’s no confusion.

When the body suffers a serious injury it immediately begins tearing itself into base components in an effort to keep itself alive. Muscle is devoured to replace lost blood, and oxygen is rerouted to only the most vital areas as the body makes that heroic effort to simply _not quit_. In short, serious wounds literally take it out of you. Atrophy from disuse is only the final insult to how your body breaks down after something like getting stabbed through the chest.

Phil had time to think about it in the period after he was no longer too drugged to speak, but before he was well enough to do more than press a button requesting a nurse and aid. He'd gone through eight pints of blood and his heart had stopped twice before they had closed him up after his initial surgery. They'd opened him up a few days later to pin his ribs back together with aluminum pieces. They tacked some of his shoulder and pectoral muscles back together at that point, too, and Phil was pathetically grateful for incapacitating levels of pain medicine. His memory didn't start being reliable until two weeks after the helicarrier incident and what he later found was being called the Battle of New York.

In his absence, the Avengers coalesced into a team, forged in the crucible of a war waged over the city half of them called home. Tony Stark had taken to calling his new, newly-destroyed Stark Tower, the Avengers Tower. It was talk of the tabloids—which Phil read religiously, even, and especially, when laid up in an ultra-top secret hospital bed. The Avengers themselves had taken up quarters in that pinnacle of Stark hubris after an initial diaspora. Relief efforts had been centered around the Tower in the first forty-eight hours. It was the only building in twenty blocks with sustained and reliable power, and it was the epicenter of the destruction to boot.

In a quiet, private place inside himself, Phil would admit to some pride in the industrialist-turned-philanthropist. Tony hadn't specifically been his project but Stark was on a shortlist of people with whom Phil had direct involvement. Phil had been responsible for Stark’s initial psychological write-up, and he still maintained a close watch on the man.

Phil found out that the team was not only unaware of his status as “living,” but quite distraught over his death, when Barton dropped through his ceiling. Clint was normally quite graceful and better balanced than a normal human had rights to be. The fact that he fell headfirst through the vent hole after knocking the vent out with a palm-strike was a mark of high distress.

"Those should really be reinforced," Phil commented, raspy and sounding weak. He hadn't felt like he'd gotten a full breath in the weeks since his memory really began. Barton had managed to roll on his shoulder and not bash his face in on the tile floor. He stared up at Phil, his mouth open, flat on his back. Phil faltered at the naked shock on his asset's face. "You didn't think a little thing like an alien god would keep me down, did you Barton?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? Are you—" Barton scrambled to his feet and went to grab him or shake him but stopped, hands hovering over blankets and hospital gown and bandages which wrapped all around his torso still. Barton’s knees buckled abruptly as he sat in the visitor's chair which had as of yet gone unused. Barton fumbled for his hand, gripping it in both of his own, and rested his forehead on it. "You're really you, right? You're here and you're you?" Phil got his free hand across his body to pat the side of Barton's head awkwardly. If it hadn't been so quiet, Phil would never have heard Barton's whispered, "Please don't be a dream."

"It's me." Phil was at a loss as to how to continue. When he'd given himself permission to imagine being reunited with the people who made up his life, it had been in a much more controlled environment. He'd have gone through whatever terrible physical therapy he needed to get back on his feet, and he'd walk into an Avengers meeting. Or Fury would re-introduce him at the Tower. They would probably be happy to see him, but they would understand why they hadn't been told initially. They'd understand why he walked the personal purgatory of recovery alone. They'd appreciate when he came to them whole, and able, and just as they might have remembered. He'd kiss Pepper's cheek and whisper an apology. He'd nod politely to Doctor Banner and share a silent look with Natasha. He'd shake hands with Tony and do the manly handshake/hug combo that Clint was fond of. Thor would insist on a hug; he was the kind of guy who hugged equally pets, complete strangers, mass-murderers, professional acquaintances, and family.

He had never imagined it like this. He'd never imagined the look of betrayal. He'd never realized how his asset's lost voice would stab right through his center as effectively as Loki's scepter had.

"I'm me," Phil finally continued.

Barton raised his head, nostrils flaring in a way that meant he was making heroic efforts not to cry. "I thought you were dead."

Phil squeezed his trapped hand in Barton's two, "That was kind of the point. I'm sorry about that."

"I was sure you were dead. For two months I was certain my handler had been murdered in a raid I orchestrated. For two months I thought I'd as good as killed you." Barton's tone had turned abruptly accusatory. His hands' pressure increased until Phil knew it would have been painful if not for the large doses of pain meds he was still on. The veins on Barton's forearms were standing out in pent-up anger.

"I'm sorry. I am sorry about that."

Barton's mouth drew into a frown and his forehead crinkled in the way it did when he was fighting an impulse. "Are you okay? I mean, obviously you're not okay—"

"Thank you for pointing that out." The grip on his hand loosened significantly and Barton looked almost relieved. Phil dropped his head back against the pillows. "Could you get my cup? They put me on IV fluids if I don't finish it by 4PM but it's too big for me to lift." A huge litre and a half plastic cup with straw sat at his bedside. Barton lifted it so he could drink and went to put it back, looking grateful for something to do.

"Is this—" Barton looked around the windowless room, gaze settling on the blooming orchid plant that was the only other sign of life in the room, "Do we need to bust you out of here?"

Phil didn't chuckle. Knowing how painful breathing could be sometimes, the thought of laughing put a terrible dread in him. Phil did however, feel the blooming effervescence of amusement and a great appreciation for Barton's loyalty. "I'm here on my own recognizance. You can stand down." They sat looking at one another for long minutes. "I'd ask you how you found me, but..."

"Stark. We didn't think it would be you, though. Tash thought it might be a World Security Council mole."

"Hmm," Phil hummed thoughtfully. He would worry about why they thought that later.

"You'll be here if I bring everyone back, right?"

"Where would I go?" He tried for flippant—reassuring for being routine sarcasm—but it only earned him a pained look from his asset.


	2. Chapter 2

"Coulson is WHAT?" Tony slammed his tumbler against the bar counter hard enough to knock over the bottle adjacent to it.

"He's in a recovery room in the Niagara facility," Clint spat out. He was so many things at once he couldn't even put a word to how he felt besides enraged. "He's been there this whole time."

"Is he okay?" Pepper asked, suddenly an ashen grey instead of her normal pale rose.

"He's... recovering," Clint finished lamely. "He can talk but he looks terrible. He still seems to mostly be in bed."

"Yeah, well, someone puts a hole through your ribcage it takes it out of a guy. I say that from personal experience."

"Tony," Pepper admonished.

"We all saw the footage. _We_ thought he was dead. The recovery from that can't be pretty. Did he seem taken care of? Were there hot nurses?"

"It was SHIELD," Clint said, shifting uncomfortably. He was angry. He was hurt. He... felt like there was a huge pit in his middle that would never be quite filled up again. He didn't feel at all like he had imagined finding out Coulson wasn't dead would make him feel. Everything was still janglingly discordant.

Moreover, he felt like Stark's concern over _his_ handler was an intrusion on his rights as the most outraged and wronged of all of them. Coulson had been the one to bring him in lo those many years ago. Coulson had gotten him through integrating into SHIELD—through going from a street kid trying to get out of some misdemeanors to a fully-actualized asset with skills envied the world over, doing _good things_.

Coulson was the oldest friend he had who hadn't tried to kill him. Coulson had been the man he went to when he was in a moral quandary. Coulson knew him inside and out, and had left him to go through _everything_ that he had been through. He left him not just bereft of one of the two people he trusted with every part of himself, but thinking he was responsible for that absence. Guilt hadn't even been the beginning of it. No amount of alien-killing or Loki-shooting during the battle, and no caliber of dangerous, murderous missions afterwards could cleanse that.

"So that's a 'no' with a side of 'fucking terrifying'?"

"Tony." Pepper laid a hand on his arm to stop him talking. "I'm sure they've been taking excellent care of him."

"Even so. We should have him transferred here. I have that full medical wing that got installed by Our Lady of Hope, and you gotta admit the company is sparkling here compared to whatever he's got in _Niagara_. When do we go get him?"

\--

Natasha had cleared the way for them by the time they got to the facility and burst through the front door. The Avengers signed in and were _politely directed_ to Agent Phil Coulson's room where she was sitting guard reading a home and garden magazine.

Phil had been dozing but woke when Tony, Pepper, and Barton barged in. Pain lines were evident around his eyes, and he looked as crumpled in on himself as he had a day before.

"Really? Somehow I pictured your reading material would be more deadly," Stark said to Natasha upon entering, completely ignoring Phil.

She quirked an eyebrow. "Gardening can be deadly," she said with promise in her voice. "They're weaning him off the opiates. If you upset him I will end you," Natasha warned, standing to take a position outside the door.

Pepper was crying. Pepper was a cryer. Pepper went to Phil and leaned down to kiss his cheek, shedding a few tears on him in the process. "Don't you ever do that to us again," she hissed severely. "Don't you ever—" She dropped her head, visibly pulling herself together. "I'm sorry." 

She patted his hand once and walked out of the room before Phil could finish saying, "That's not necessary," in a quietly lost tone.

Tony was studiously not looking at Phil. Considering there was literally nothing aside from the orchid within the room to draw attention, it was an obvious attempt to impart some arcane message. "Barton," Phil greeted wearily. "I was glad to hear Natasha recovered you from Loki's control." Barton gave him a look that was hurt, but also so many things he couldn’t decipher. "That was one of the things I worried about... When it happened I was thinking—" Barton turned on his heel and left before he could finish, and Phil deflated a bit.

"Well. This is awkward," Tony said, rocking on his heels. Tony rolled his eyes around the room and went to the visitor's chair, turning it backwards to sit on. "I came to bust you out. I have a medivac and a really over-qualified trauma nurse hired as escort. You should be in the Tower. Even though everyone who was really glad to see you basically just walked out of the room without speaking to you."

"I love how you sugarcoat things," Phil replied dryly.

"Look... I... We—" Tony tried to start a sentence a few times and kept stopping as though the words stuck in his throat.

"I'd prefer to conduct my recovery here. SHIELD has the best in trauma specialists and I'm familiar with the regimen."

"SHIELD may have the best but I have the _best_." Tony waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Phil looked unimpressed. "Seriously, though, look at this place. No windows? An Orchid? Really? I could have you set up with your own New York panorama and a high-powered telescope so you could play Rear Window all day. Knowing you, you'd discover a mafia ring operating out of the Hot Yoga studio across the street, which by the way is worth some creepy telescoping."

"Seriously, Stark," Phil began, obviously mimicking Tony from a moment before, "I'd prefer to stay here."

"I'm not leaving without you in my aircraft. In all honesty, if you don't come, Pepper and Clint will kill me. Natasha wouldn't even have to dirty her hands—my CEO would tear me limb from limb and Clint would pin the pieces to the side of my building as warning to any who didn’t live up to their expectations. It's really an act of mercy on your part. A favor to me. Come on. Phil. Since you were dead we didn't have the chance to do that sort of thing for each other."

Phil snorted and immediately regretted it. "I think that fall from space left you a little addled."

"Addled or not, I'm going to get my way."

"Well as you just pointed out, they don't seem particularly interested in having me around. I am going to stay right here."

"See, I learned some tactics from a few of my new Avenger buddies while you were playing Sleeping Beauty, so I came prepared. I am going to sit here and recite Def Leppard lyrics as spoken word until you agree to come with me. Natasha will give me the time I need. She's in with Nurse Rachett."


	3. Chapter 3

Tony Stark, being Tony Stark, did not move Phil into the medical wing in his building but instead into a large suite not too far below the penthouse level. As promised, there was an amazing view of Manhattan and the highest quality medical care. Sitwell was in on it and had convinced Phil's normal attending physical therapist to do house calls. Rehab was awful. Withdrawal from the opiates which had been the only thing keeping him relatively sane was awful. It was unimaginably awful. It felt as horrible as the stab through the chest had felt, but for weeks. His left side was weaker and held together with medical-grade alloys and hope. He would probably never be able to shoot a rifle again, and his grip strength was affected by nerve-damage.

The fact was, Phil felt pretty terrible most of the time. If he had been on anything approaching active duty he would have written himself up for a psych eval. Clinical depression was not uncommon amongst agents and assets, and treatment was, for the large part, swift and effective. Natasha spent most of her off-duty hours at his bedside. She cleaned guns, sharpened knives, helped with his PT and gave him details on the movements of everyone in the Tower which would have been alarming to anybody who didn't know her so well as Phil did.

Doctor Banner had bugged out to somewhere remote. Stark had tabs on him and took great glee in letting his pet scientist slash Hulk know that he wasn't alone in the cold wide world. Stark also pined like a regency heroine after his science buddy. In his mental dossier, Phil ticked off Banner as something he no longer had to worry about. Once Stark had a hold on a bone he was loathe to let go. Banner was the juiciest sort of bone to someone as frankly intellectually starved as Stark.

Captain America AKA Steve was on a tour of these United States. "It was really cute, actually. He took a stack of maps from the AAA and drove off on his bike. Stark got a tracker on, but I figured SHIELD already had one so I didn't bother." Natasha seemed intrigued but reserved over the supersoldier, and dryly amused.

"What does his travel look like?" Phil asked, squeezing his therapy ball for another painfully weak set of repetitions.

"He stopped for a week in Custer State Park."

"Rushmore and Buffalo." Phil sighed.

"He doesn't seem to have much direction, but he hasn't run out of wanderlust yet."

"Fury kept him on a short leash before the Battle. He's probably trying to get used to self-checkout grocery lanes and solar-powered rest stops. He'll come home to roost."

"My thoughts precisely." Natasha smiled her friendly smile which was still terrifying to most.

Thor was traveling relatively freely between realms, though sporadically. There was some sort of social unrest in Asgard which was pulling him away frequently. The time not spent at home was largely used visiting Doctor Foster and liaising with the secret ambassadorial branches cleared to know about him and his people. 

"He is annoyingly direct for a cultural liaison," Natasha commented sourly. Thor was as good at making gaffes as he was at getting out of them. You couldn't stay mad at Thor any more than Thor seemed able to maintain a sustained dislike of anyone or anything. He had visited Phil once.

"Son of Coul!" he had boomed, arms raised in welcome, excitement, or praise. "The Widow warned me that were I to embrace you to my bosom, as I would desire to do of a fallen comrade risen from the chilly depths of Hel, I would like to kill you. Rest certain that my gratitude that my brother failed in his cowardly attack is near beyond bounds!" Thor had shaken his good hand three or four enthusiastic times, and insisted on leaving a “healing rock” resting on Phil's stomach.

"Do you think it does anything?" Phil asked doubtfully, turning the river-worn stone over in his hand. It felt warm but that could have been from being on Thor's Asgardian-temperature person.

Natasha shrugged, "It can't hurt. If it doesn't do anything, Clint can glue some googly eyes on it and you can have a friend for Mr. Flowers." Phil stared down Mr. Flowers, his orchid, which had acquired googly eyes during his daily nap.

Clint. Barton. Phil sighed. Barton hadn't been by while he was awake since he had been moved into the Tower. Phil had woken startled from a dream, to find Barton asleep gripping his good hand. His head was pillowed on the mattress at Phil's side, and he had his worried frown on even in sleep. Phil had squeezed Barton's hand and drifted back into sleep; when he'd woken, his asset had been gone.

Pepper came by as often as she could, what with running Stark Industries and keeping up her meager social life. It helped that she had quarters in the Tower when she was on business in New York. After the first few visits which were full of tears on Pepper's part and painfully awkward on Phil's part, their relationship settled once more. Phil imagined that their conversations were much like those of chief butlers from a hundred years ago; two competent, hard-working people discussing the foibles of the lackadaisical, difficult, fickle people who they spent their time wrangling.

Pepper was like a cool drink of water. She calmed him, reassured him, and treated him almost as he remembered them interacting from before he was dead for two months. "I am always amazed by your aplomb, Ms. Potts," he commented to her one visit. "From that first time we met during the Iron Monger incident you were always the picture of composure."

She blushed, a pretty rosy pink that matched her lipstick. "That's kind of you to say."

“I—” Phil frowned, gathering himself. “That was one of the things I regretted not saying, while I was... How much I admired you and how much your friendship meant to me.” The color drained from Pepper’s face and she turned away from him. “I’m sorry if that was too forward,” he said after a beat.

“No. Phil... When you say things like that it just reminds me of how close we came to losing you, and what it was like to—” _to mourn_ , she didn’t say. _To move on after your death_ and _to fill all the places and duties that you used to inhabit_ also went unsaid. “If you make me cry again, you’re paying for new mascara and eyeliner,” she threatened sternly.

“I’m relatively certain R&D developed some of each that is near bulletproof. I can request a sample for you if you’d like.”

Pepper laughed in a wobbly manner that said she was still upset.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil levered himself to sitting and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He gave himself a minute to breathe before reaching for the four-pronged cane at his bedside and sliding gingerly to his feet. He was unsteady still, and every time he leaned on the cane there was a twinge of pain through his left side though he held the aid in his right. He walked slowly to the huge windows which made up the entirety of one wall in the suite.

He walked back to his bed in the same ponderous fashion. He drank from his cup and stared at the mussed bedsheets which had been his world for the last several months. He was so goddamned sick of sleeping and resting and being _ill_ and it just wouldn’t end. The monotonous nightmare didn’t seem as though it was ever going to end. He had been through recovery from injuries before. He’d been shot several times, and one memorable week had been spent getting tortured. The recovery from that had been his least pleasant memories of convalescence up until recently.

His heart was broken. Technically the sack that his heart sat in was what had sustained the most damage. The doctors had explained how his pericardium had been torn and how an infection secondary to the injury had done further harm to his already frail cardiopulmonary system. Localized ischemias had done the damage to his heart muscle. They had shown him the pictures of ropy lines of scar tissue that made up part of what had been a healthy, strong heart. His healthy, strong heart. He had taken comfort in the strength of his body even as he traversed middle age, and now that was gone forever.

He growled at the bedsheets and moved to make another lap to windows and back. At the windows he paused. Stark had installed a telescope, ostensibly as a joke calling back to his suggestion that Phil mimic the Hitchcock film “Rear Window” and discover the crimes neighbors of the Tower were engaging in. Phil stared at it and thought seriously about putting his eye to the glass. Perhaps there was something interesting going on within view. He had always indulged his voyeuristic streak through his assets in mission control, but he had not been able to do that in quite a while. Mission reports grew stale and flat after a while, and Natasha’s relayed stories lacked body.

Phil reached for the eyepiece and stopped, cold and scared.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t what he was meant to do. This wasn’t what he needed to do. If he was going to start spying on Stark’s neighbors he should hand in his retirement and give up on pretending to be useful to his assets, or indeed any team. He needed to do something. He needed to do anything.

\--

Fury appeared at Phil’s bedside, coat swept out to either side of his frame, perched on the visitor’s chair. It was a testament to how not okay Phil was that he was startled. It was a sign of his improvement that he managed not to show it outwardly. Phil blinked at the clock. He had drifted off to sleep after lunch again. “Director,” he greeted calmly.

“I heard you were wanting to get back to work again. I gotta say, you don’t look up to it.”

Phil pushed himself upright with his good arm and tried to collect his thoughts. “I may not be up to chasing heroes, but there _are_ things I can do that would be useful and within the terms of my recovery.” Phil paused. “I need to work,” he admitted finally.

The scars over Fury’s eyepatch crinkled in a one-sided frown. They stared at each other for long moments. “I get it—I get why you need to get back to work. You also need to recover, though, if you’re ever going to be any good to us again.”

He tried not to, but Phil blanched at the overly honest words.

Fury looking _kind_ was one of the more distressing things Phil had ever encountered. “You know—”

“I’m not under the impression that I’ll pass a field physical again,” Phil interrupted the director. “That’s not what this is about. I just... I need something to occupy my mind; something to occupy my days.”

Fury glanced towards the ceiling as though thinking _God help me_ and then back at Phil. “I’ll see what the doctors say about dropping you into an analyst position while you’re in recovery. They might say no.”

Phil deflated with relief. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”

“The only way I would regret it is if you pull a Barton and fuck up your recovery by over-working too soon. I need you alive and in working order, Phil; I’ve been without my good eye for too long as it is.”

“Of course, sir.”

\--

The conditional medical approval was taking longer than he’d expected, and he was itching to be distracted. Phil had quietly gone out of his mind weeks earlier and was hoping for something to latch onto with his normally agile faculties. He was still nodding off at inopportune times, and he startled awake to find Barton glaring down at Mr. Flowers armed with a pair of ice cubes. That explained who had been watering the poor thing now that the nurses weren’t there regularly.

Phil coughed, and Barton startled. They stared at each other for a long moment. Barton’s glances told Phil he was calculating escape routes. Phil searched through his mind for something to talk about—something to say—that would put them on safe footing.

“You never did tell me why you were snooping around my hospital when you found me.” They could talk about business. Business was safe. He could almost see Barton physically shift mental gears into work mode.

“Uh.” Barton rubbed the back of his neck, “Stark had been tracking classified data disbursed by SHIELD. There had been some leaks on Avengers-specific intel since the Battle and Stark is taking it personally. There were regular ultra-classified data transfers going to your location which showed up as warehousing on the property manifests.”

“You suspected a mole was siphoning off data to a remote facility.”

Batron crossed his arms and nodded. Phil indulged in a brief surge of jealousy at the movement. Physio had told him he would likely never cross his arms comfortably again, given the cartilage lost in his shoulder joint, the metal pins holding his chest together, and the muscle and nerve damage.

“Did you find the mole?”

“No. We kind of... we all got distracted with you.”

“I’d hate to think I distracted all of you.” Barton got a pained look that made Phil’s stomach ache in sympathy. “I could take a look at the data. I might be better able to pick out data transfer discrepancies.” 

“You don’t have to. I’m sure—”

“I’d like to,” Phil interrupted.

“Yeah. Okay.” They tried not to stare at one another for a long moment.

“Could you sit down? You’re looming.”

Barton collapsed into the visitor’s chair, knees wide and hands dangling between them. “I got a new handler from Fury,” Barton told his hands sullenly. “He gave me Kozel.” The words were like a lance through Phil’s chest all over again.

“Kozel is good. I trained her myself.” Kozel tended to be a little too abrupt, almost harsh, and prone to taking bigger risks than Phil would, but she was one of the protegees he was proudest of. “I understand why you would request a new handler.” Phil had broken a sacred trust between them. It had been necessary at the time, Fury had explained, but when he thought about it, the decision felt like drinking gasoline and dry-swallowing a match.

“You understand,” Barton repeated woodenly. Barton blew out a harsh breath through his nose, standing abruptly. “You fucker,” he said bitterly. He rose, turned, and left.

Phil replayed the conversation through his mind, but only after he requested an audio replay from JARVIS did he realize that Barton had never said _he_ had requested a new handler.

\--

Tony came by and dropped his Captain America cards on his side table. There were blood spatters on them he wasn’t sure were his, and they were signed. “Cap got back last night. He’s probably just making a pitstop on his way through the south, but...”

“The Director owes me a mint set,” Phil informed him calmly.

“Yeah, well,” Tony shrugged, “it really brought the team together. Even if it was utter bullshit.”

Phil shrugged. It was true; Fury had used his incapacitation as a focal point for the team and a means to incite them to action. Ultimately it was a false gesture thrown in for the short term gains, but in spite of that it had some staying power. As evidenced by Captain America coming back to the Tower. “You said Rogers was back?”

“Yeah—his bike’s in my shop right now.” Phil allowed himself a tiny pleased smile that Tony was taking that much of a personal interest in Captain America. “They also sent you a hot young intern to help out when you’re back in the saddle.”

“Excuse me?”

“She is...” Tony shook his head appreciatively.


	5. Chapter 5

Phil was gradually habituating to actually living in the Tower instead of just conducting his painful and lengthy recovery. His personal items had been moved into his suite of rooms a week after he had been installed there, making him feel as though he was an exhibit in a human-sized terrarium and Tony was furnishing him with an array of plastic plant life and rocks in an attempt to keep him satisfied. The PT staff that checked in regularly was lovely, and the cleaning crews that worked at that level of the Tower were gifted with calming personalities reminiscent of agents of SHIELD and high clearance levels.

He had a few pictures, and more books than any individual had a right to, and very little else that wasn’t SHIELD issue or clothes. In spite of that, furniture appeared and was organized into homey configurations. He had an office which locked with level seven SHIELD security procedures and could be used to store files. He had a kitchen with his mother’s kitchen utensils in the drawers. He had a bedroom set which housed his suits quite nicely, though he had not had occasion to wear one since moving in. It was like a place that he lived, but it wasn’t his home. Not like the helicarrier had been and not like his desk at headquarters had been. Not like his little one bedroom in Queens.

The doctors very grudgingly approved him for light duty, and Phil spent the week leading up to his start date preparing mentally as well as physically. He had been weaned off of major narcotics a few weeks before but making it through the day without regular doses of painkillers was still difficult. He eliminated his midday naps, and practiced sitting up for extended periods so he wouldn’t flag in the face of his accustomed hours. He wasn’t even making it to a normal drone’s accustomed hours.

Phil received a packet on Ms. Darcy Lewis, though to be honest, she was a hard individual to forget. Their first morning together, Phil put on his best suit and his lucky tie, and attempted to prepare himself.

“Suit!” Darcy Lewis greeted him. She spread her arms wide as though she was actually excited to see him, or she planned to give him a hug.

“Ms. Lewis,” he replied in kind.

“I’m your hot young assistant,” she added.

Phil frowned. “Have you been talking to Stark? You know there are sexual harassment guidelines even he is beholden to.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know what he means. This position is super-swank.”

“Is it alright with you if I simply call you my assistant?” he asked wryly.

“That’s me. Foreign relations can’t get more foreign than interstellar. HR said I’d be good with you, so I’m your man. Girl? Lady, I’m your lady.”

Phil sighed. He wasn’t in the habit of accepting inexperienced personnel to work under him, but with his extended leave and all around light work load which would continue being writing reports and babysitting duty for the foreseeable future, he wasn’t entitled to a seasoned assistant during the current personnel crunch. Training Darcy in her work was well within his capabilities, parallel to serving as an analyst. “That sounds fine. Let’s start on the Asgard communiques. Briefs are due by 4 PM.”

Work between Doctor Foster, Stark, and the scientific equivalent on Asgard had resulted in a relatively stable Einstein-Rosen bridge originating in Stark Tower. As they explained it using small words, the holes already punched through space/time by Loki had created a ripe cloud of particles which made other space holes easier to punch. This all meant Stark Tower was morphing into an interplanetary Grand Central Terminal and ambassadorial hub rolled into an uneasy burrito of politicking and opaque agendas. It was soon going to require a full-time ambassadorial staff in addition to Phil, who was spending a good portion of his time screening the transit lists for possible security risks. He was doing his best, but he was certain things could be slipping through.

Phil wouldn’t mention it anywhere except perhaps on an official performance review, but Darcy was a pleasure to train. Her reading speed was ungodly, her mind was agile, and her wit was dry and biting. She had strong biases and fierce opinions, but she also had a wonderful ability to put those aside to write fair and even-handed reports on almost any subject. In fact, the majority of the training Phil had to do involved convincing her that various portions of the SHIELD training manual were not in fact written satirically, preparing her for her military security clearance hearings (she already had clearance for Asgard-related briefs due to her involvement in New Mexico), and training her on how to access and format SHIELD data for SHIELD reports.

Within a week he was talking her through writing her own briefs, and within two she was taking down dictations from him, filling out the appropriate forms with the ease of someone trained in state school systems and reliant on federal student assistance.

She took lunch with him every day; Phil suspected that it was an off-the-book duty assigned without his knowledge and designed to ensure he ate and took a break. She talked about bands and the strange things Thor did at the zoo, and the rest of her SHIELD analyst-in-training regimen which she completed before showing up at his quarters/office at 10AM every day. The last Phil encouraged subtly, first because it allowed him an unguarded window into her progress outside the bounds of his office, and second because it provided him snippets of second-hand contact with the agents and assets with whom he used to be close.

Barton was in charge of her ranged weapons and marksmanship. Between Barton and Romanoff’s training regimens, Darcy was being schooled by one or the other of them daily. “Why is Barton in charge of your marksmanship? Takanada is rangemaster with analyst recruits.”

“I think Natasha made him.” Darcy shrugged uncomfortably. “She said something about if I was getting trained by you I should get the best of everything.”

“As you should. You have the qualities that could take you far in this organization if you decide that’s what you’d like.”

Darcy gave him a funny look as though perhaps that was the first time someone had told her those things, and she wanted to refute it. “Yeah, well, I’m terrible. Even with Clint as a teacher I’m lucky to hit the target.”

“Not everything SHIELD does is guns and fighting. The capacity for meta-analysis of broad data sets informs where to leverage our force, and is arguably more important.”

“That’s why you’re all depressed and mopey; because analyst is the real glamour shot of SHIELD. I can see you just itching to get back in the field when we go over some of the action items’ recommendations,” she added as though she thought he was calling her dim.

Phil frowned. Was he so transparent that even Darcy could see his discontent? “That’s different.” She raised her eyebrows in challenge. He sighed. “Ms. Lewis, the simple fact is that I’m not going to go back into the field barring a radical improvement in my physical condition. Field work suited my temperament well, and at the time that I joined that was where my strengths played best. I am attempting to face up to the reality that my skills now only lie in my mental faculties.”

Darcy went a bit pale and they both fell silent as the gravity of what Phil had said sunk in. Phil had thought those very words before, but he hadn’t voiced them; not even in solitude. “I was good in the field and to a degree I enjoyed the...” adrenaline rush, he almost said. The immediacy. The feeling of not just acting in a unit but of being so enmeshed with his team that they _were_ one mind. “I’ll miss it, but I can be useful here,” he finished quietly. “You could be an invaluable asset. I don’t say that lightly.”

A flush of color went up Darcy’s pale cheeks. They had veered abruptly off into the personal and neither of them seemed comfortable with the turn of the conversation. Phil found himself doing that since coming back into society; saying the baldly honest things he had kept inside his head in his previous life. He had learned there might never be the perfect time to express those thoughts that he had kept wrapped away.

Darcy glanced at him and back down at her papers. She looked a bit choked up, and he felt guilty, though he was unsure why. “If you say so, boss.”


	6. Chapter 6

Phil was reading mission briefs in bed when JARVIS informed him, “You have a visitor at the elevator, sir.” A tablet by his bedside came to life showing a high view of Layla Kozel standing at ease in his entryway.

“Let her in, please,” Phil instructed, shuffling the papers into a teetering stack on his side table, shifting his legs over the side of his bed with a grunt, and standing. She met him there as he wobbled, good hand on his cane, bad hand braced lightly against the wall, and frowned.

“You’re as stubborn as _him_ ,” she admonished, not needing to clarify that “him” meant Barton. Phil grunted. Kozel moved to his bad side and helped brace around his waist. They moved slowly to the armchairs and she sat him down. At this point he was feeling the worst effects of physical therapy compounded by being back to extra-strength tylenol as his pain reliever of choice.

“Layla,” he greeted calmly. She smiled down at him, a little brittle and a little motherly. She was barely more than half his age but she pulled off the look with ease. There was a reason he was so proud of her.

“Boss,” she returned, settling across from him. She was in her SHIELD Woman in Black uniform so she was here on business. Sitwell and Hill had been through not long after the transfer to the Tower, along with a few other agents with whom he had worked especially closely, but nobody besides Fury had come on official business.

Phil raised an eyebrow at her and her expression dropped its warmth, molding into a professional mask. He had been there with her through the early days when emotional distance had been so hard to find. The reality of being an agent on the ground was very different from anything else, and managing the stress of being in the middle of active operations yourself while instructing those under your command was a unique challenge. She had risen to it admirably, and seeing her put away whatever she was feeling to get down to work was gratifying, even as he was saddened they couldn’t meet as friends.

“I take it this is about Barton?” Phil prompted.

She nodded. “I don’t know what to do for him.”

“For him?” Phil asked. Barton had always been so self-sufficient. Sure, he was emotionally both stunted and broken, but he managed it with a singular determination, and when that didn’t work he was actually relatively conscientious about attending mandated counseling sessions. Phil had never thought of having to do much for Barton at all—he simply kept an eye out, reined in Barton’s more self-destructive tendencies, and maintained boundaries and routine between the two of them.

She nodded again, frustrated. “There’s something wrong, and... I’m honestly scared I’m going to lose him,” she admitted. There was fear in her voice, but also shame. It struck a lance of fear through Phil’s chest. “He’s taking risks—”

“Tell me what’s going on,” he commanded, perhaps more harshly than the situation warranted. When Kozel was saying that an asset was taking undue risks the situation was truly escalated.

“He was destroyed after he—after you...” She glanced at Phil and then down at her hands clasped between her knees. “But they put him on therapy and cleanup duty and that... actually seemed to help. He got assigned to me and it was going pretty well. We got sent on a couple of milk runs, and he got fielded with the Avengers once. I tagged along with Sitwell for support.” She smirked thinking back on it. “He was bonding well with the other members of the Avengers Initiative and he was reintegrating with SHIELD staff in spite of obvious difficulties.”

Phil nodded along with the telling, encouraging her with the motion.

“And then he found you.” Phil blinked. “He’s off the rails. He assaulted a subordinate in the mess the other day. He’s been blowing off mission reports and he’s late to briefings. He’s sullen on the comms and he’s—we’ve had to take him off of the duty rota. He’s been sent to psych but he’s fighting them too.”

“This is because I’m alive?” Phil asked, truly confused. Was Barton angry he wasn’t dead? Was he mad at Phil for all the grief he’d gone through? Phil certainly wouldn’t blame him if that was it, but the reaction seemed out of line with the stimulus.

“He won’t talk to me. He won’t talk to anybody except Ms. Romanoff, sometimes.”

“What’s your assessment?”

“He’s angry,” Kozel replied almost immediately. “He’s... He doesn’t want my help,” she added finally.

“You think he wants mine?”

“I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know if there’s anything any of us can do or if this is something he needs to work out for himself. That’s why I came to you. Do I crowd him? Do I give him space?”

“Barton always needs a bit of space,” Phil admitted, thinking on the times he and Clint had truly, angrily disagreed. “He might just need some distance from work, or from me. He’s getting plenty of the latter.”

“You don’t think he really wants to talk to you?” Kozel asked hesitantly. 

Phil had tried talking. He’d tried re-establishing normal between the two of them. It had fallen flat and hard and painful between the two of them. Perhaps they needed time to establish a new normal. Time for Clint to develop a new baseline that didn’t involve memories of Phil’s betrayal and abandonment of his asset in a time of true emotional distress.

He would pull out of this tailspin like he had pulled out of every other self-destructive nosedive he’d had on Phil’s watch.

“I don’t think I can fix this,” Phil said, adding _for him_ in his mind but Kozel obviously took his statement at face value.

She leaned forward and put and hand over his. “It’s never really broken until both people don’t want to fix it.”

Phil frowned.

\--

Asgardians preferred their written messages translated and in hard copy format. Policy briefs, political updates from Phil’s counterpart in the Court, and ambassadorial greetings and negotiations took the form of beautifully calligraphed scrolls or folded letters and occasionally tablets or magical stones. Historic and scholarly tomes also filtered across Phil’s desk.  
Darcy was a particular fan of the magic stones which operated much like an alien magic kindle.

Asgard had neglected to allow an Earth delegation permanent residence, and the social connections that that would have fostered. The Midgardian information pipeline largely consisted of Dr. Selvig, who had taken up study in the Realm Eternal, as he had started calling it. Darcy had tried to explain their tolerance of Dr. Selvig, and near as Phil could tell the Asgardians saw it as repayment for some sort of blood-debt Odin felt he owed the scientist. Selvig’s reports were a pleasure to read, filled with droll observations and acute deductions regarding power plays, social structure, and the shifting winds of politics. Phil could only assume Selvig’s career in academia had prepared him for political writing.

Darcy brought the stack of scrolls, parchment sheets, and tomes for that week over to the desk and sat down. Phil took the paper and parchment while Darcy took the stack of “Viking Kindles.” They each read and took notes for almost an hour before Coulson felt his concentration slipping. “What have you got, Ms. Lewis?” he asked, putting his pen and notepad aside.

“A lot of the usual. There’s a pox in some of the agricultural regions. Marine harvests are lower than usual this year though no reason is given. There are a lot less business arrangements announced, but that could be the season. Recountings of feasts, which sound amazing by the way. When are we going to share out the haunch of some beast we killed?”

“Don’t give Stark any ideas.”

“A call for some search parties for outlaws in the mountains. Or maybe the fjord coastline—not quite sure. And... warnings about non-magic practitioners that some minor magic doodilies mighta got misplaced; reward for information.”

Phil mulled that over in light of his own reading. Darcy had gotten what amounted to tabloids and newspapers which included a healthy dose of whatever missives Odin felt were important enough to warrant dissemination by herald.

Phil’s papers were worrying in a way so subtle he couldn’t pinpoint anything more than a gut feeling. There were a lot of regional meetings happening. The announcements of local town hall sessions and council gatherings seemed markedly increased. The tone of the business of court—open to all Asgardians who felt the need to attend—was somehow harsh. There were none of the somewhat ridiculous interpersonal disputes that somehow always had made it before Odin. Names that Phil had never seen before were cropping up in Darcy’s gossip rags, and other individuals formerly held in high regard were conspicuously absent.

Then there was a missive direct from Odin to the governments of Midgard involved in Midgard/Asgard affairs, instructing them to inform him if unauthorized non-Earth entities surfaced. He assured them that Loki was still safely imprisoned, but implied that the ne’er-do-wells who were causing trouble in the mountains in the Realms Eternal might flee to Midgard to avoid Asgardian justice.

Odin was the epitome of tight-lipped. If he was willing to say that much, there was a good deal more under the surface that was going unsaid.

“You’re really quiet,” Darcy told him with a concerned frown. He had been staring sightlessly at his notepad with a glower of concentration on his face.

“Asgard is up to something. Or something is up in Asgard; I’m not sure which, yet.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Agent: you wished to be informed if any of the wayward Avengers Initiative ‘returned home to roost’?” JARVIS asked politely.

“It’s not Agent any longer—Analyst or Coulson is fine.”

“Sir,” referring to Stark, “has made it a programming element that you only be addressed as Agent. I apologize for any inconvenience.”

Phil sighed. “Who is it?”

“Doctor Banner is currently being escorted to his quarters by Sir.”

“When the Doctor is settled could you request he visit my office?”

“Of course.”

\--

Doctor Banner did not make Phil nervous for the simple reason that Phil didn’t let anybody make him nervous.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked, practically crawling into his jacket like a turtle in an attempt to appear smaller. He hadn’t even entered Phil’s office area, instead choosing to lurk in the hallway and peer through the door.

“Doctor,” Phil forced some warmth into his voice in an attempt to steady the scientist. “We can talk here or somewhere else if you would prefer.” Banner twitched and appeared to make a conscious attempt to relax, apparently having realized how flighty he looked.

“This is fine.” Banner rubbed his palms down the thighs of his slacks with a spreading sort of anxiety. Phil stood with a tiny grunt of pain and gestured at the armchair, set at a comfortable angle to Phil’s desk. Banner’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “It’s a pleasure to finally get the chance to talk to you, Doctor Banner. We mostly missed each other on the Helicarrier and we never got the chance to chat.”

Banner blanched. “Sorry about that.”

Phil waved off the apology, “Not your fault. We were all busy, and the effects of Loki’s staff were unaccountably potent.” Phil could see the question in Banner’s eyes; _what do you want with me?_ Phil gestured at the seat again, still a request but a more pointed one. Phil disliked looking up at people while speaking with them for extended periods. “I like to get to know everyone I’m working with and we haven’t—” Phil cut himself off with a frown. “SHIELD would like you to feel comfortable here.”

“Trying to catch some flies with honey?” Banner asked in a biting tone.

“You’re a good influence on Stark. Your scientific prowess is unparallelled. You’re doing more good here than on the run through third-world countries. The advances you and Stark could make in biotech, in clean energy, and in medical innovations could save more lives than the Hulk and Stark are responsible for, ten times over. We’d like to facilitate that, to whatever degree you’re comfortable with.”

Banner’s look could only be described as poleaxed. “You want me for my big brain,” he stated as though checking he had understood.

“And your steady personality,” Phil replied with the tiniest quirk of his lips.

Banner let a humorless, disbelieving chuckle escape. “Far be it from me to criticize support for science and innovation,” he said finally.

Natasha had been right in her assessment of the scientist. Far from the moral failings that had led to the Abomination, he held to a rigid and powerful moral code. Letting the Hulk free was an option he had exercised only when weighed against the destruction of the Chitauri and by all indications was not one he would consider deploying in the future.

“If you really do just want me for... science... I’m going to need some assurances. I am a weapon on par with an atomic bomb blast both in power and sheer ruthless destruction when the Hulk is unleashed. Who would you trust to aim that weapon?” Banner looked so sad and so lonely and it tugged at the tired, bereft place inside Phil which was so well-hidden that it was only evidenced by an ache under his ribs most days.

“You seemed to trust the Team,” Phil replied neutrally, without judgement. Banner snorted a chuckle. “I would say you could trust the Director, but he’s not the easiest man to trust.”

Bruce’s eyes went flat and blank. “No. You’ll forgive my not believing a word he says, in the future.”

“Of course,” Phil replied easily. He trusted Fury with his life and everything that entailed. He trusted, perhaps more than he should. The thing he and Fury had was old and familiar; the chains that bound them together had been forged so long ago that like trees near a fence, both men had grown around and subsumed them. “Nobody is asking you to unleash the Hulk.”

“Not now,” Banner mumbled into his coat’s lapel.

“Not ever,” Phil asserted, looking him steadily in the eye. “There may come situations where we’d like the Hulk’s assistance, but the decision regarding participating in any mission will lie entirely with you.”

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Phil raised an eyebrow noncommittally.

“You think I don’t know what’s happening; giving me a place to call home, working with the best minds in the Western world? Becoming friends with Clint and Thor and Natasha—people I know will rush to the front line at the next whiff of trouble? People I wouldn’t be able to watch get crushed any more than I could watch Betty get killed, even if it meant countless other deaths. You’re making sure your tackle box is loaded with Hulk-bait before you go fishing for trouble.” Banner stood and took a step forward, planting his hands on the desk next to where Phil leaned.

Banner’s forehead was wrinkled in a portrait of internal struggle. “The worst thing is, I know it and I’m not strong enough to keep going it alone.”

Phil bowed his head as the moment stretched between them. Telegraphing the movement, Phil reached out and placed his hand over Banner’s. Banner’s eyes flew to meet Phil’s, pent emotion but no green coloring his gaze. “I’ll do anything within my power to keep that from happening, Doctor Banner. Forcing your hand is not the intent, here; giving you stability and a place to work, is.”

\--

Darcy slipped into his office with two mugs of cocoa when Banner left. Phil was resting his cheek on his desk, hands clasped in his lap because he still couldn’t comfortably raise them above his head as he wanted. It was an undignified position but Darcy had seen him in worse for physical therapy. Everyone would probably see him in much worse shape in the future. It seemed to be his lot in life to bring down the quality of a superhero gathering.

“That smells lovely, Ms. Lewis,” he told her, feeling a genuine curl of comfort tighten around his middle. Who was she that this... girl practically, could read him so well.

Darcy looked at him with a soft, almost kind look. “I take care of people.”

Coulson frowned a wry little frown. “That’s the business we’re all in, Ms. Lewis,” he said gently.

“No. You guys take care of the People,” Darcy said with an expansive sweep of her hand, “I take care of the people that take care of everyone else.”

“That’s quite a burden.”

Darcy’s look was knowing. “Yeah. It can be.”

Coulson felt like something inside him had popped, causing him to deflate. He sighed. “Ms. Lewis, sometimes I wish you were less insightful.”

“And sometime I wish my tits would fit in C cups, but then I wake up and I’m thankful for the gifts I was given.” Darcy ducked her head so her hair curtained across her face. “Look, boss man, let me do what I’m good at. You take care of them—all of them—let me take care of you.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

Darcy shrugged. “There’s something you wanted to talk about. Before.”

“How did you figure that?” Coulson asked, a wryly sarcastic smile twisting his lips.

“I saw it. You totally had a thought on your face.”

“I don’t have thoughts on my face,” he said with a sternly impassive expression.

Darcy waggled her fingers at him, “Okay this is my best approximation of what your thought was saying. _I wish I had died because then at least I would have went out when it meant something and I wouldn’t be burdening my team with my sorry ass_.” His expression turned uncommonly cold, and Darcy visibly paled from her normal almost-white complexion to somewhere between sheet and ghost as she understood instantly that she’d stepped over some boundary. She didn’t back down. Instead he saw her resolve harden in the tense draw of her shoulders and the obstinate jut of her jaw. “Look, I get it. You want to be the one that’s together and there for people and solid and shit, but sometimes you just gotta fall apart and let your friends help you pick up the pieces.”

“I don’t fall apart,” Phil stated. He wanted to fall apart. He had his moments, quietly, alone, where he thought about putting down his burdens and having a nice quiet mental breakdown. He thought about locking his door and not coming out for days or weeks. He thought about how nice it would be to roll over in bed, pull the sheets to his chin, and never get up again. Each thought made him sick. Each fantasy disgusted him. As much as he wanted those things he rejected them twice as hard. “That’s not what I do.”

“Dude, I know you were like, Rangers Special Forces, but get a fucking escape valve. You’re going through a lot of fucked up changes in your life and you have who—me, Natasha—to talk to? That is _not_ a recipe for sanity and stability, boss.”

“I have a therapist and a psychiatrist,” Phil replied, voice sharp as one of Natasha’s knives.

“And do you tell them shit? Because I would tend to think that they’re as fucking terrified of you as the rest of SHIELD.”

“I hardly think—”

“You _came back from the dead_. An _alien god_ stabbed you through the heart with a magic alien spear and you’re _back at work_.”

“I’m back working,” Phil corrected.

“You’re upright and eating using a fork and knife. If you were fucking speaking in tongues and bedridden they would still be impressed. And all this shit was even _beyond_ the whole super-spook extraordinaire, Fury’s right hand thing.”

Phil wasn’t a scary person. Nobody was scared of Phil. Okay, secretly he glowed a bit inside when Sitwell spread outlandish rumors that the new recruits seemed to believe, but he was hardly a shadowy figure of terror amongst the ranks. Their distance was out of respect and the distance of position and clearance levels.

Darcy sat on his desk, earning a glare which she ignored. “Look, I know shit sucks for you, but you gotta let it out, dude. The kids really care about you and if you need people to talk to or break down with or whatever, they’ll be here for you.”

“I think you overestimate their regard for me.”

“Dude, they fucking destroyed an alien invasion and took down a god for you. I think their regard speaks for itself.” Phil’s only tell was a slight shift of muscles around his eyes, but somehow Darcy picked up on it. “The thing with Barton is fucked up. He was...” She trailed off with an involuntary wince at the memory. “It’s the ones that mean the most to us that can hurt us the most, you know?” she said finally.

Phil stared down at his thumbs. “I do know that, Ms. Lewis.”


	8. Chapter 8

Darcy stretched with him through his physical therapy after lunch. He had asked her to give him some privacy the first time, but she had stood firm. “Sorry boss. Just do your thing; I’ll give you a hand if you need it.”

“Have you been compromised by the physical therapists?”

Darcy had shrugged. “I can neither confirm nor deny,” she’d replied with a smirk.

Phil looked down at the crumbs which were all that remained of his sandwich. He could have fought her. He could have ordered her out. He could probably have scared her and forever established a hierarchy between the two of them. He could have waited her out. He had been too tired for any of that.

He had dropped his head in a reluctant nod. “If I give you instructions please follow them to the letter. I’ve been told my pain tolerance often leads to pushing myself inadvisably far and I don’t want to re-injure anything.”

“Sure, you got it.”

As he’d grown stronger, her role during those fifteen minutes before getting back to work had gone from aid to companion. She’d acquired her own tiny barbell at some point and had moved from helping to brace his scapula while he went through movements designed to rebuild his lats and stretch his pectorals, to going through the exercises with him.

“My back hasn’t been this pain-free since before grad-school,” she told him when he asked why she felt the need to continue along with him even though he had outgrown the need for her help.

Phil admired the arcs of her arms as she went through the routine movements, smoothed by practice and training courtesy of Natasha. She had taken a shine to the younger woman and had expressed that fondness by training her in seduction and interrogation techniques.

Natasha also got Darcy shirts which, though technically within SHIELD regulations, were stunningly sensual given Darcy’s natural endowments. The way Darcy stretched made it clear that Natasha had been teaching her to use her assets to best effect.

She was beautiful. Phil had noticed; he wasn’t dead. She had passion and bestowed her affections generously, and she was _smart_. She was also a civilian, his employee, and half his age, so his admiration was similar to his admiration of classic sculpture, or jazz music.

“Like what you see, boss?” she asked cheekily, rolling her arm through a rotator cuff flexibility exercise Phil himself could not yet manage.

“It’s excellent to see you taking responsibility for your long-term joint health,” he replied deadpan.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” she dropped her arm and set the weight down. “I have been pulling out all the stops!”

Phil gave her a look that bordered on pitying. “I’m used to Natasha. As beautiful as you are, your seduction technique is nothing on hers. I’m flattered that you’d try, but please—” he gave Darcy a small, self-deprecating smirk, “why don’t we keep this professional?”

Darcy let her arms drop, and it was as though she’d shrugged on a sweater made of her insecurities and old habits. The sex appeal vanished, but in its place was a cocky, brash confidence that was Darcy alone, and somehow more enticing. “Yeah, we can do that.”

\--

“Call for you from the Director,” JARVIS informed Phil.

“Accept it please.” Phil was in his kitchen trying to convince himself that a protein shake really was going to be tasty and just what he wanted for a mid-afternoon snack.

“Coulson,” Fury’s voice greeted him.

“Director,” Phil returned. “Does this communication need to be secured?”

Fury growled. He actually growled. “That’s part of what the call is about, since you mention it. Stark and his crew are crawling through my data systems and gumming everything up. We’ve had firewall incursions that are messing with my computers and it needs to stop.”

“Sir.” It was agreement, acknowledgement, and a question rolled into one word.

“I’m not stupid enough to think I could keep Stark out of the system he built in entirety, but when it starts messing with our active operations it needs to be shut down.”

“I’ll speak with Stark, but sir—”

“Yes?”

“How do you know it’s Stark?”

Silence met his question, and the words hung between them heavy and ominous. “You, him, in my office at central, immediately.”

\--

“It’s not me!” Stark protested. His rare visit back to New York made it obvious to Phil that he hadn’t been sleeping much or well. He’d been hiding out in Malibu with Pepper the past month and by all accounts, he was sinking deeper and deeper into a manic anxiety. He was prickly and had not been taking good care of himself. His eyes got wide and angry. “It’s not _me_ ,” he repeated more to himself. He was already in motion, grabbing a jacket and half-running to the elevator. Phil followed as quickly as he could, and thankfully JARVIS held the door to the elevator for him.

They rocketed to the helipad so quickly Phil’s ears popped. Tony was on his phone for the entire helicopter ride and Phil was lost in thought. Whatever was in the SHIELD mainframe was high-level. It was good enough to avoid a paranoid workforce and a highly competent technical team. That there were several groups of individuals interested in perpetrating cyber-havoc on SHIELD was a given, but the likelihood that two separate groups would have developed the programming means to do so seemed low. Whatever was going on in headquarters was likely related to the data thefts.

Fury had gathered AD Hill, Sitwell, and a pair of computer people by the time Phil and Tony  
arrived. 

“It wasn’t me so you can put your glower away right now, or at least aim it somewhere else,” Tony said, striding into the conference room. He made a gimmie gesture at the computer people who were immediately at his beck and call. Fury glared at Tony with his good eye for a long moment. Phil had secretly believed that Fury, like the legend of Odin, had the power to discern truth from falsehood with his one good eye. He seemed satisfied that Tony wasn’t lying to him.

Tony hitched his hip against Fury’s desk, conferencing with the computer people and waving at tablets they both held. Phil glanced at Maria, eyebrows raised. “The incursions hadn’t been shutting anything down, just tying up computing resources at key choke-points. It’s been in there for... a while.”

“Stark.” Phil said it with the snap of sharp authority and Tony’s head popped up from the tablet almost like a puppet. “What’s going on?”

“One of your guys definitely picked up cyber-syphilis,” Tony said to Fury. “I thought they taught the boys to wrap their willies in the Army.” Fury growled. “It might be the same thing I was chasing when we found Phil. Which... actually would be terrible. This thing is all over. How did you not notice this?”

“We did, but we thought it was a collection of smaller viruses. It’s very diverse in its coding styles,” one of the techs said. “We brought it up when it began impeding computing function for the research analysts. Some of this code isn’t like anything I’ve seen before; it’s almost alive, the way it adapts to containment attempts. That’s why we thought it was Mr. Stark’s.”

“Can you fix it?” Hill asked Stark.

Tony tugged on his mustache in an anxious, thoughtful gesture. “I could, probably, but you wouldn’t like the pill any better than the disease.” Fury glowered at Tony as though he could force information out of the other man by sheer force of will. “I have an... aggressive variant of JARVIS which, if unleashed on your systems, could hunt down the code in question and neutralize it.”

“An aggressive AI? How could that go wrong?” Fury asked rhetorically.

“That would require giving you access to our data and our systems,” Hill added.

“Without doing this, the software allowing the Helicarrier to function could spontaneously shut down. Hell, even your storage facilities could become death traps if the ventilation systems glitch in the right way.”

“We could minimize the risk of Rambo JARVIS,” the other of the techs suggested. Tony looked delighted at the name for his AI.

“Yes. We could segment off the data centers and take them off the network prior to the purges. That way the AI would only be operational in a single non-networked system at a time,” the first added.

The techs and Tony devolved into technical talk. “This will cause a major disruption in operations,” Phil told Hill as they argued.

The look she gave him said she was fully aware of that.

“All active operations that can be canceled have been. All others have been put into holding patterns until we get this resolved. It’s not ideal but if our computing systems are compromised we can’t risk moving forward with operations.”

Tony clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “Okay then.”

“We can fix this,” tech one added.

“What are you waiting for?” Hill asked. The techs scampered out the door, anxious but also obviously excited.

Tony went to follow them but Fury stopped him with a hand on his upper arm. “Wait.”

Tony looked mutinous but something stopped him from mouthing off. “Any code that goes into our systems is not going to come out again. This is not going to be your opportunity to break through into secured data. I hope you’re aware of that.”

Tony frowned sourly. “Rambo JARVIS is on a suicide mission. I got that from talking with your underlings. Data from this operation could do a lot towards inoculating against future problems like this, though.”

“No.”


	9. Chapter 9

Tony disappeared for several days working on the data problem. Phil sent Darcy to liaise with Maria and the techs when he could as the travel was unaccountably exhausting. When Phil was informed by JARVIS that he was expected at a “family meeting” in the penthouse he knew that the data situation had reached some sort of endpoint. By the time Phil made it to the penthouse level Barton and Tony were already arguing.

“The data is stored somewhere though,” Barton insisted.

“Yes. In the Cloud,” Tony said, accompanied by an expansive hand waving gesture.

“But the cloud isn’t some place; it’s just the method of retrieval. Data isn’t stored in magic water molecules in the sky.” Barton had stolen enough data and worked to help Natasha steal enough data that he understood the very physical basis of the ethereal concept of knowledge.

“Actually a binary hydrogen-based method was proposed—” Bruce began but sort of withered at the quelling looks shot him by Phil and Natasha. “He’s right, though. There are warehouses of hard drives somewhere that contain all the cloud data. It would be very hard to locate the appropriate drives, and the data would be heavily encrypted. No more encrypted than anything they’d get directly from headquarters, though.”

“That’s preposterous,” Tony frowned. “That’s so utterly ridiculous. They would have to be able to figure out which hard drives had the information they were after and somehow flag them, then get someone at the server farms to pull them out or break in and do it themselves. _Then_ they would have to be able to break our encryption software.”

“Are you saying you couldn’t do it?” Barton asked.

“Well, sure, _I_ could probably do it—”

Darcy hustled into the room. “They stole the hard drives.”

Everyone in the room fell silent. “It’s confirmed?” Phil asked in an undertone. Darcy nodded.

“What? Like, they actually stole the _hard drives_. The physical things? Is this corporate espionage circa 1988? What is wrong with people? Are you— tell me you're kidding."

“Nope,” Darcy replied.

Barton stared at Tony as though this was all his fault. “What the fuck happened to good, honest espionage? Where was my seductress smuggling our data out in her cleavage? Where was the car chase? Where was my high stakes game of baccarat?” Tony took a moment to breathe and calm himself. “So they— okay. They really... Right.”

“Can you figure out what specific data was taken?” Phil asked.

“I can find out what was on the hard drives, but data packets are broken between literally hundreds of them. I should be able to extrapolate what files they were after once I know which drives are missing.”

“Do it. I’ll work on plugging that particular security hole.”

When Phil did figure out how the theft had been pulled off, he was not pleased. Within their servers, the virus had gone largely undetected simply because it barely did anything. It monitored the distribution of certain high-level communiques and shifted data packets whenever hard drive defragmentations occurred so the packets were stored on a cluster of hard drives, which, while physically diffuse, were within the same data complex. The hard drives all sent warnings of impending failure within the same 48 hour period. This hadn’t raised any alarms because the data complex was so large that there were six people whose job it was to patrol the server rooms each day and note failing hard drives and replace them.

The hard drives that were “failing” were taken out, put on a cart for destruction, and replaced with fresh hard drives, at which point things got really interesting. The appropriate cart was signed into the room where they were to be dismantled and the data destroyed before they were shipped off to reclamation, but there were no employees who remembered either dismantling them or packing the remains for shipping. They had simply disappeared.

“I would say that’s not possible, but I know the god of fabulous abs and I met his renn faire buddies when they fought a giant magic fire-breathing golem,” Darcy said with a smirk. They’d been working on tracking down the leak together, and she had proved remarkably adept at wheedling information from the data center workers.

“You’re suggesting that the theft was magical?” Phil asked, eyebrow raised.

She gave him a look that clearly asked, _you aren’t?_ Phil tilted his head to the side in tacit agreement. “Doesn’t Banner have something that can detect Asgard stuff?” Darcy asked.

“He developed a search program for Tesseract energies but I don’t remember him having anything for Asgardians in general. It certainly would be useful for keeping track of Thor,” Phil murmured under his breath.

“Not for like, the people, but if they use magic. Let me check.” She pulled out her phone and dialed. “Hey, Big Green!” she greeted. Phil rolled his eyes. She had been hanging out with Stark too often if she was talking to Doctor Banner like that. “Do you have something that could be used to track down Asgardian magic? Or like, tell us if it had been used in an area?” She listened for a few long moments, murmuring attentively at appropriate intervals. “Yeah, but I was thinking more like CSI. No— the TV show. Yeah, it’s kind of like Poirot, I guess. Look, can you do it?” She paused to listen. “Well can STARK do it? It’s pretty well covered by aerial satellites. ” Phil could hear the raised voice on the other line. “Okay! That’d be great!” Darcy’s tone lightened considerably. “Give Betty a big kiss on the mouth for me!”

She smiled broadly at Phil when she put the phone down. He raised an eyebrow. “What, Betty is totally the hot professor, through and through.” Phil remained silent. “Right. He said he has something in the works that Tony can get ready to go tonight. It’s something with magnetic fields and heat signatures combined with the gamma mapping... Gonna be honest—I don’t know what it does, but it should say if there was large magic use near the data center and how long ago.”

“Very nice, Ms. Lewis.” She executed a mock curtsey in response to the complement. She got on his nerves sometimes, but her gleeful, resilient approach to life was sometimes the only thing keeping him grounded.

\--

“So you know that little huge problem we thought we had?” Stark asked by way of greeting, walking into Phil’s office with an agitated, straight-legged gait. Phil raised his eyebrows and lowered the Asgardian historic tome he was reading. Darcy spun in her chair, hiking her legs over the armrest and tilting her chin up towards Stark with an open-mouthed grin. The two of them had some sort of unholy chaotic empathy. “It’s actually just a garden variety huge fucking problem.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Phil stated deadpan. Darcy made an enquiring sound. “I thought my gut feeling was broken. But if it is that big of a problem then it’s perfectly calibrated. Talk to me.”

Stark gave him a sour look at the command, but his agitation was too much to keep him spitefully withholding the information. “I got that magic detector working and there was a massive magical energy expenditure at the data center. That was how they got the drives out.” Phil waited patiently. If that was all it wouldn’t have set off Stark’s alarms. “The type of energy they’re using though... magic and technology don’t get along. They would have fried the hard drives unless they had someone with some serious technical knowhow. We’re talking some sort of big-time magic/tech collaboration.”

“Our enemies are teaming up,” Darcy surmised. Stark snapped and knocked his fists together, pointing at Darcy in a gesture that said “got it in one.”

“Other thing is, it doesn’t look pure Asgardian. The traces are a bit different. It might be from hybridizing Earth tech and magic, but it might also be from something in the other ‘nine realms’. Thor told us about elves and dwarves and that shit—it might be more than Asgard we have to worry about.”

“Do you really think it likely that Asgard is waging some sort of covert information war against us? How would they have come to gain expertise about Earth technology? And how would they be moving in Earth without our notice? It takes a full team and Jane Foster to keep Thor under wraps in his civilian guise.”

“Maybe they have spies in Asgard. I don’t fucking know, I’m just telling you what I found.”

“Maybe it’s not all of Asgard. Maybe it’s just... like, fringey bandits or something. Or rogue fairies! Or disgruntled dwarfs.” Darcy gained speed with each suggestion, but stopped herself before she went completely off the rails, growing more thoughtful. “From the stuff we’ve been getting recently there’s been a lot of trouble with food and disease—that sort of thing always brings out the crazies.”

Stark waved his hand dismissively. “It was a lot of energy but it wasn’t anywhere near Bifrost-initiation energy. Wherever they transported it was on Earth. If they moved it via Bifrost it had to be done after getting it out of the data center. JARVIS cross-referenced suspected terrorist cell locations now and is doing scans to see if the aliens are working with an Earth group, or out of an Earth base.”

“Can we get Thor on the line to sort this kind of thing out?” Darcy asked, turning to Phil. One of Darcy’s skills was her willingness to approach people about information. If she needed to know something and she knew an expert on the subject, it didn’t matter if they were the president of a university or the crown prince of Asgard, she would boldly approach them and ask. It saved her a lot of time but it made her somewhat lazy on actual research at times.

“We can probably get him a message. Why don’t you draft up a suitably vague communique? See what Selvig has to say, too.” Phil suggested, turning to Stark. “Let me know as soon as you have something.”

\--

“It’s the fucking Friends of Humanity,” Stark said without preamble over the video link. He was in a desk chair, tilted dangerously far back as though being farther from the screen would distance him from the distasteful results of his inquiry. 

Darcy frowned in confusion, typing a search into her laptop. Phil frowned in disgust. The Friends of Humanity were horrible and borderline terrorist but because of the current administration’s political agenda, they operated with an alarming level of impunity. SHIELD had a stay clear order regarding the FoH, but even so they’d tangled from time to time, especially when the Sentinels program had made its short run at Xavier’s crew.

“These guys?” Darcy flipped her laptop screen around so Phil could see it. “They look crazypants.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Stark said over the video link. The website was cheerful with lots of photos of Caucasian families, small children, and babies taken through soft lenses, and espoused the tenets of racial purity. The background was the unique shade of robin’s egg blue that screamed Cult.

“Are these guys, like, Nazis?” Darcy asked, squinting at the site as she scrolled through it.

“Not quite, but they are 100% racial purists. Did you know they kidnapped a bunch of mutant kids from upstate?” Stark asked.

“The Stryker project; I was aware. Luckily things were sorted out, though not without casualties. SHIELD keeps out of mutant affairs in general, but it always pays to be informed.” Tony made a disgusted noise. Phil knew that Stark and Xavier were familiar if not cordial. Xavier was insular to the point of excessive paranoia, and Stark was the opposite of tactful in most society situations. Phil could tell from the expression coloring Stark’s face that he was contemplating just what would happen to an organization that attacked _his_ people in their home. It sent a shiver down Phil’s spine.

“Humans for Humanity is kinda a creepy slogan,” Darcy added. “How did these guys get their hands on Asgard stuff?”

Phil frowned. That was troubling. “They usually stick to home-grown reprehensible political action groups and some minor vigilantism. Their MO isn’t this sort of... unsanctioned apolitical act.”

“Boss.” Darcy turned the laptop screen back to Phil. The page heading read, _Earth for Earthlings: how aliens are Ruining the country._ “What is up with crazypants and the weird allergy to uniform capitalization?” Darcy asked rhetorically.

“You think this is somehow meant to target Asgard? Or frame Asgard? Perhaps to pressure Earth governments to cut off contact with the Aesir?”

Darcy shrugged.

“Whatever the hell these assholes are up to, I’m forwarding you the location that the data was transferred to. I’m not holding out high hopes for recovery but maybe SHIELD can do a little raid-and-grab and figure out what these guys are up to.”

Phil shook his head. “Hands off means hands off. If an Asgardian contingent were to be sent...” Phil shook his head again. It would likely take too long to get the message to Thor. “Perhaps Black Widow would be up for some covert action.”

“Hawkeye’s good at that stuff, too,” Darcy added. Phil shot her a look. “I’m just saying.”

“If I can recruit Doctor Strange it might be viable,” Phil allowed. “I don’t want to send in a human team to a magical fight.”

“Like bringing a knife to a laser-pistol duel,” Stark murmured. Abruptly he cut off the communication.

“We need to figure out if these guys are run-of-the-mill home-grown terrorists who got ahold of some fancy alien magic, or if there is something else going on.” The fact that terrorist cells masquerading as political action groups was the easy, manageable situation irked Phil. Perhaps it had always been like this, but in the last few years, the world seemed to have tipped on its side. “Get those letters out via Bifrost immediately. If we can get Thor here that would be ideal, but just fresh news from non-Asgardian sources could be invaluable in this situation.”


	10. Chapter 10

The response from Selvig came the next day indicating that he had correctly interpreted Darcy’s urgency. Regular interstellar mail service was a novel and frightening idea, but he and Darcy, and SHIELD in general, had gotten used to the idea remarkably quickly. It came with an official sealed missive from the Royal Court to SHIELD. 

Selvig’s letter began,  
 _My dearest Darcy,  
The feeling at Court this last week has been strange to say the least. The usual land disputes and small disagreements over trade have given way in a wash of what I believe to be political discontent with the ruling Aesir. Peasants and minor Lordlings alike have come to Odin’s halls to lay grievances at his feet. The rivers and oceans are producing low yields, and livestock are dying in the womb. A disease is ravaging the outer colonies which causes death and widespread infertility. I have not seen such fear in the people in all the time since I arrived._

_Jotunheim was put in its place, but with Loki’s return and the havoc he wrought on Midgard, there is talk that this could be his doing; a guerilla war against their oppressors. Still others are insisting the imbalance their world is suffering is a result of re-establishing links with Midgard; a sort of celestial cantilever pushing Asgard in a direction she does not want to go._

_I sense I am buffered from the worst of the news and that is perhaps the most concerning fact. The things I hear are disturbing enough. The rule of Odin has quietly come into question from many quarters, and I fear a coup may be on the horizon. If that is true, much of our work may fall to nothing in the coming months or years. It is difficult with the Aesir to say how quickly things move. Heimdall senses my restlessness, of course, but our work continues well._

The letter wandered off into a discussion of technical specifications for their efforts at melding Earth and Asgard technology for improved communication arrays. It returned to gossip quite a bit later.

_I had the honor of a drink with the Lady Sif. She confessed to be under some stress regarding the sickness and accompanying lawlessness in the outlands. The Warriors Three were asked, in the absence of Thor, to help maintain the peace in the eastern outlands, but she was specifically barred from accompanying them. The Warriors Three split over the decision—Fandral and Volstagg went at the order of Odin while Hogun has remained behind to keep the Lady company. She is unfailingly loyal to the Allfather even in the face of such unrest. They wait in restless limbo hoping that Odin grows desperate enough to call on their skills in a meaningful way. I am not certain that anything will change Odin’s mind in this matter, though._

_Hogun has earned his moniker this last week: he is the grim one at court, though no person seems to have much cheer recently. He stews in his own dour juices over matters of the higher court. He will not speak of what occupies his mind but it is something especially dire, I think. It seems the curse of the Aesir that none of them will speak of what bothers them until fate is set and it is much too late to do anything about their feelings. It’s enough to drive a man to drink._

The letter ended in inquiries about Jane and herself, and pleasantries. Darcy read it once more and sat back with a frown, handing it to Phil. Phil read it through twice as well, stopping at points to make notes on his legal pad.

“Thoughts?” he asked Darcy, leaning back in his chair with a grunt. As much as this was urgent, it was also a learning experience for Darcy. If the people who had trained him hadn’t taken the time to let his critical thinking skills develop in this manner he would never have become the agent he had been.

Darcy puffed out her cheeks in thought. “Shit’s getting real, boss.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I think I said what I meant,” Darcy nodded in satisfaction. Phil rolled his eyes. “Okay, first,” she started, raising her hand and ticking off fingers, “where’s Thor? Dude isn’t here. Dude isn’t at court. Where the hell is he?” Phil nodded. “Second, what’s the deal with Sif? Is Odin keeping her close ‘cause he trusts her or ‘cause he doesn’t? Third, political shit. I mean... I get why the people are freaked out, but what is that going to lead to?”

Phil nodded again in satisfaction. He popped the seal on the official missive from the Realms Eternal and scanned it for anything above Darcy’s clearance level before handing it to her. She read it twice and handed it back. He read it once more and nodded for her to start.

Darcy bit her lip making a few absurd and confused faces. “Who the hell is Freyr?”

“Excellent question.”

“And why—how would he get here? Bifrost is the travel method du jour. Like, Loki was a badass motherfucker ‘cause he could walk the world tree. Why is Odin all over this guy?”

The Court document was largely a warning to watch out for possible incursions on Midgard. Heimdall had reported blind spots with worrying frequency, some of which had begun showing up on Earth. At the end there was a special warning about a Vanir named Freyr stating that should he be found he should be extradited to the Court as quickly as possible.

Phil frowned. “Are any of the Earth-Asgard emissaries due back within the next 24 hours?” Phil asked. Darcy consulted the transit schedule and shook her head. “See if we can get anybody on the line. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I’ll see what the mythology has to say about this Freyr guy. If he’s a bigwig it can’t have slipped through the godly cracks.”

\--

Thor solved most of their issues by arriving late that evening. Phil had become accustomed to the prickle of energy that went up and down his spine when the Bifrost was activated. He was fairly certain he should look into the effect of constant exposure to interstellar travel energies on humans, given the ever-increasing number of residents in the Tower.

“Who is it?” Phil asked JARVIS without preamble. He had been in the middle of trying to relax with some reality television. Interstellar travel was really more interesting.

“Prince Odinson, I believe,” JARVIS responded, brightening the lights in anticipation of Phil’s actions.

“JARVIS, can you please wake Ms. Lewis and ask her to join me? If Thor attempts to leave please ask him to remain in the common areas.”

“Of course, sir.”

He was wrestling with the dimple in his tie when Darcy knocked on his door. She offered him an arm which he took in lieu of his cane, and they processed to the Avengers great room. Darcy made it feel as though they were moving at a stately pace instead of bowing to his still-weakened state. Thor was pacing in some state of agitation. His smile was tight when he saw the pair of them.

“Friends.” Thor spread his arms in a sedate welcome. He dropped his arms and ran his hand up and down the haft of Mjolnir. “I bring strange news for strange days.”

“Talk to me,” Phil commanded, sitting down at the kitchen table and pulling up his files on the clear display for notes.

“My father would be distraught if he knew I came to you in this manner, but for the good of our realms and the strength of our relationship, silence on this matter is a betrayal that I could not conscience.”

Darcy appeared with mugs of tea. “Is this about the Freyr guy?”

Thor started at Darcy’s words, frowning in discomfort. “Aye. My uncle is part of it.” Darcy and Phil exchanged a look. “The Realms Eternal are facing many troubles which have not plagued our lands for millennia. Are you familiar with the books of the Royal Lineage?”

“No. We’ve been provided histories of some of the houses of Aesir but the Royal Lineage in particular hasn’t been available.”

“Almost like your daddy’s got something to hide,” Darcy added with an eyebrow wiggle.

“Mind how you speak of my father and my King.” Thor glared thunderously at Darcy. “You are not far wrong, though. My mother’s lineage has never been in question—her parentage can be traced nigh to the creation of our race—but that of the Allfather has always been steeped in more legend than fact. With these recent troubles, the outer lands are rife with talk of a change of rule.”

“Is that unusual, though? From what I understand, Asgard has a tradition which encourages airing grievances in a public forum and seeking resolutions, usually through tribunals.”

“These are not the griefs of righteous people,” Thor replied, a heated anger coloring his words. Darcy leaned back from where he sat, her hair standing on end with static charge. Thor took a moment to visibly calm himself. “Some have brought their concerns before the Allfather to seek solutions. Many others work in secret, either from fear of royal retribution or out of the belief their concerns would not be heard.”

“Is that a valid fear?” Phil asked evenly.

Thor dropped his head in a defeated sort of shame. “I know not.” Thor shook his head and took a deep draught of the steaming tea. “Odin has grown less tolerant of petitions of late. The farmers in the outlands are scared, and the fisher folk are facing hunger for their families and no hope of profit this season. They say Odin’s rule has become misguided, and that he ignores the wisdom of his heritage and is leading our people astray. I am ashamed to say that my own actions with the Bifrost have been brought as evidence of his mounting failures.”

Thor’s tone shifted from one of miserable commiseration to what Phil thought of as his “telling of tales” tone. “Freyr is well-loved amongst the Aesir, though he be of the Vanir. He was long tasked with the rule of Alfheimr and did well by the elves. He led them through times of great strife and they are a strong people because of his rule. The full harvest, fair weather, bountiful oceans and clear skies are his auspices. His magics can cure the infertile and it is said wherever his gaze falls, peace may grow and bloom.”

“He sounds like a swell dude,” Darcy said.

“He is my uncle,” Thor replied, sounding lost. “My mother’s brother,” he added. “Some say his line should sit the throne. Some say the lines of Odin are tainted by bloodlust and a sour mix of foul bloods, and that my father and myself and all of our kin should be taken from the throne.”

“Harsh,” Darcy breathed out.

“So some in Asgard are calling for regime change?” Phil clarified. “They’d prefer that this Freyr take the throne?”

“That and more. There are readings of our ancient prophecies that say that the union of the earth and the sea will lead to prosperity in our realm. They believe this to mean Freyr and my shield sister Sif.”

“Sif, like, built the Thor-For-King headquarters. I mean, no offense but she’s like, the last lady I’d think of for Queen of Asgard.”

“Aye. I do not think these events of her devising, but nonetheless she is caught within the web woven about her.” Thor paused and stared into his tea. “I tell you all this to a purpose. I spoke with Heimdall this morning. He sees all but there are ways to thwart his magics, with great effort or power. He has told me of many such occurrences taking place, in Asgard _and_ here. He fears some cataclysm is building between our realms, and thus he sent me with warning.”

“Isn’t that... somewhat against his fealty to Odin?” Phil asked, trying to sound delicate.

“His first oath is to watch and protect the realms. He fears the forces at work seek to blow our worlds apart.”

“They want to _kill us all?_ ” Darcy asked shrilly.

“Nay. But the ways between our worlds are fragile, and they might be forever closed by the right sort of assault. Heimdall fears the very fabrics that bind our worlds together may be in jeopardy.”


	11. Chapter 11

The call to assemble came up at around 7:30 AM the next morning, which meant everyone but Steve and Natasha was soundly asleep, or coming off of an all-night work bender. Stark looked as though he was both hungover and sleep deprived, as well as potentially suffering from the effects of improper ventilation during welding in his workshop. Barton didn’t look much better, though he was more alert and didn’t have the saggy, ashen skin Phil associated with him having drunk too much. Phil had seen Barton in all stages of exhausted, injured, and suffering the after- effects of a variety of chemicals, and this looked like bad dreams and angst. Banner was greasy and unkempt, with glassy eyes and a confused expression that said he had been pulled from the depth of theorizing. Thor looked spry and ready for action, through the power of Mjolnir, already dressed for battle.

“Fire beings, Financial District,” Phil informed them succinctly.

Thor looked at Natasha. “Know you where this is?”

She was just slipping on her belt and wristlets. She nodded. Thor opened his free arm to her and she tucked herself into his embrace. He tightened his arm around her and took off, Mjollnir leading the way.

“I got the Quinjet,” Clint said, frowning worriedly at Stark. “You going to make it, man?”

Stark shook off his stupor, skip-running towards the elevator. “I’ll be fine, Cupid. Just get the rest of the team there in one piece. The stabiliser mods for the boot thrusters I was working on won’t handle another person just now.”

Phil felt particularly helpless as Barton led Steve and Bruce to the jet and Tony zipped from his launch pad towards the financial district. Darcy appeared at his side at that moment, shrugging into a shapeless hoodie. She was sweaty and bleary-eyed. Phil raised his eyebrows at her. “Ms. Romanoff has been taking a personal interest in the progress of my hand-to-hand training,” she replied to his unspoken question.  
“Well, she’ll be limbered up for whatever is happening by Wall Street.” Phil sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“So are we watching the show, or what?” Darcy asked.

“The show?”

“JARVIS—hook us up?” The entertainment area lit up with multiple angles of the battle including what looked like a helmet-mounted camera from the Iron Man suit.

“Would you like audio input as well?” JARVIS asked politely.

“Sure.” Darcy grinned and looked to Phil as though he should be delighted with how clever she was.

“We’ll be discussing breaches of SHIELD security later, JARVIS,” Phil told the AI sternly.

“Of course, sir.”

Thor had dropped Natasha near the Procter & Gamble bull and was attempting to lure the fire beings into Battery Park where he was hurling them into the ocean with powerful blows from Mjolnir.

Flashes of light preceded the emergence of a fire being from jagged tears through the very fabric of space in an area directly adjacent to Wall Street. The canyon-like streets trapped the mayhem and bystanders alike. Stark and Barton were acting as perimeter control, liquid nitrogen arrows having considerable stopping power against the apparently supernatural beings and repulsor blasts shattering the frozen flesh.

“What are these guys?” Darcy asked, scooting close to a screen to stare at a fire being that Natasha was engaging. The thing was ten feet tall and wreathed in fire. It had a vaguely female, humanoid form and wielded a blade which poured blue-white flames off its tip.

“Fire giants?” Phil suggested doubtfully.

Thor’s roar of battle-rage could be heard over the comms.

“Eyes on Banner?” Stark asked, looping and spiraling to avoid a leaping fire giant.

“I got him,” Steve’s voice said over the comms. “I’m keeping the Quinjet clear until he can jerry-rig something to keep more of these guys from coming in.”

“So no Other Guy backup?” Stark asked. There was no response. Stark cursed quietly.

“The number of arrivals seems to be slowing,” Sitwell said over the comms.

“Slowing isn’t stopping,” Bruce replied, speaking for the first time on the comms. “I think I have something that will disrupt the portal formations.” Banner spewed a string of technobabble.

“Do it!” Stark shouted. “Powering down now for 10 second count. Mark.”

Stark had been climbing to gain altitude and at his word the camera, his comm, and the entirety of the suit went dead. He reached the apogee of the arc his thrust supplied and began free falling back towards earth. Darcy gasped. A blue light that reminded Phil of the Tesseract energy blossomed outwards from where the Quinjet was parked. Seconds later the Iron Man suit reinitialized and Stark looped out of his free-fall, taking a victory lap to survey the area.

“Looks like that did it, honeybear,” he crowed.

“Don’t celebrate yet. We have to get the rest of these guys into the water,” Steve warned.

“Such a downer,” Stark groused.

“Yeah, Cap, celebrate the small things,” Barton added, shooting the last fire giant in his range.

Stark teamed up with Natasha on the last cluster of fire giants, boxing them in and herding them to Thor’s waiting hammer. It was like a really destructive game of baseball as Thor batted them into the bay. A tree was on fire in the park, but it was green enough that it didn’t look as though it would burn long.

Stark’s helmet cam video feed became infinitely more comprehensible as he landed and walked to meet up with the group in the park.

The fighting had been quiet only moments when the cloud gathered, lightning striking sudden and violent in Battery Park, downing trees and panicking those who had cowered instead of fleeing. A huge funnel cloud formed, and the crash of thunder and lightning struck simultaneously.

A man in armor stood at the center of the runic circle, a mace held in one hand, a streak of blood down the side of his face. Thor broke into a shambling run towards the man, the rush of panic in his steps. "Hogun!" he cried. "Pray tell what brings you hence."

"It is your mother," Hogun replied, clipped and tense. His eyes darted constantly around the park as though on guard for assailants. "There was a portal opened to Muspelheim—" He shook his head, and Phil noted the signs of shock setting in. It was nice to know even battle-hardened gods could succumb to psychophysical maladies.

"What of my mother?" Thor asked with a stricken look.

"She was hurt. Your father will not leave her side while the healers see to her. You are needed in the Realm to sit his seat."

Thor spared an agonized glance for the rest of the Avengers, reassembled and nursing minor burns. "She's your mom," Barton said from amidst the group. "Go."

"I will send word, you have my promise," Thor told them, before raising his head. "Heimdall! Take us!"

With another swirling, howling storm, they were gone.


	12. Chapter 12

Thor sat his father’s seat. It was not the feeling he had dreamed of so many years and decades previous. There was no feeling of righteous victory; only an empty, sore spot filled with worry for his mother and fear for his countrymen. The healers had attempted to keep him from her, but he had gone to see his mother. She was grievously injured as Hogun had said. Burns covered much of one arm, her face, and her throat where a fire giant had restrained her. His mother’s beautiful hair was crisped and sizzled off in patches and her scalp was reddened and blistered.

His father was beside himself. Odin was a hard man, a vicious, calculated, brilliant man, but he was also a husband. The depth of love he felt for his wife was infinite, and it was at times like this that Thor was reminded of that fact. The lines of his father’s face stood carved deep with grief and fear.

Thor sat the throne as a steward only. He was the crown prince, but he was not King, and somehow that made the responsibility sit easier with him. He would hand back the reins of power when his mother was recovered and his father was once more himself.

The similarity between the two attacks was eerie, as was the timing. Fire giants had appeared in the realm, nearly within the palace itself, in a state of rage and confusion. They had attacked all who approached them, including his mother as she tried to weave a spell of sleep on one that threatened her and her ladies. They had had no clear aim beyond chaos. They were like a bomb blast in their indiscriminate destruction. One fire giant had manifested on one of the palace walls and leapt out into the grain fields directly adjacent to the palace dwellings. She had set alight a considerable portion of the grain, and the resulting inferno had swept through a farmer’s holding, killing the women and children within.

Now the people gathered, outside the palace gates. They gathered in mourning and fear, now, but it would turn to anger and recriminations quick enough. The rumbles of discontent would turn to lightning strikes of blinding action. Thor called Heimdall to him.

“Why did they come here?” he asked the watcher.

Heimdall’s golden eyes were calm and impassive, but burned with a cold fury. “You know my sight does not extend to the motives that move the heart.”

“What possible advantage did they seek? Our realms are at peace and have been for many centuries. We have naught that they want and likewise they have little of value to our people. Why do they seek a quarrel where there was only the peace of strong borders between us?”

“Why do you think they sought quarrel?”

“Why else would they come and harm our Queen—my mother? To what _end_?”

Heimdall’s lips quirked down in a ponderous frown. “Perhaps they were naught but pawns in another’s dark scheme.”

“You suggest my brother?” Thor’s tone was warning.

“I suggest another,” Heimdall countered harshly.

“Speak plainly, watcher.”

“The Lord Freyr’s supporters have grown more militant of late. The spots which my sight cannot penetrate –- perhaps this is the action they sought to perpetrate.”

“My uncle would not order the death of his sister. Suggesting it is unthinkable! You know the love—“

“Mistakes may happen in any battle. Perhaps he called up the fire giants and did not think how they would aim themselves once present in our realm,” Heimdall suggested.

“I do not think him capable.”

“If not him then those who would see him sit your father’s seat.”

“Nay. There are not such in Asgard who—“ Thor stopped himself with a devastated frown. “I betray my naivete again, do I not,” he said, more to himself than Heimdall.

“You betray only your generosity of spirit,” Heimdall replied, his tone softened. They kept their own counsels for long moments. “If Freyr was not involved but still his supporters were… you must consider that the Lady Sif may be a part of this plot.” Thor made a guttural cry of frustration and anguish in denial. “She stands gain to as much as your uncle were he to rise to power. Their union would be expected.”

“She is not one to deal in such a manner!”

“Sif is ambitious, ruthless, and canny. Mayhap she sees your father’s rule weakening.”

“She has always stood a loyal friend to me and our family. She was to be my bride. I swear, she would not act against my father in such an underhanded manner. Were she to do such, she would do it in the sight of all with a righteous conviction.”

Heimdall bowed his head, the great horns of his helm sweeping in an arc of agreement. “I do not like to speak ill of the Lady Sif. She is a fine warrior and I have yet to see her dishonor herself. Forgive my... unkind thoughts.”

Thor waved his hand. “Think not upon it. You have given me much to ponder, and I have a craving to visit my mother.”

\--

Thor looked down at his father, appearing as he was; an aged warrior and a man suffering the weight of nine realms along with that of his family. He sagged with it. Odin spoke, his voice sounding rough with hard use and heavy thoughts. “Sif must be sent away. We can not have her in the palace, inflaming the hopes of some misguided few.”

“You suggest banishing her for the ill-done deeds of others against her will but on her behalf?” Thor asked, aghast.

Odin growled. “You think me that unjust?” Thor maintained eye contact with his father. After the manner in which his brother had been treated he knew not what to expect. “No, I need her merely somewhere that she will not be waved like a juicy bone in front of hounds. Under different circumstances Sif and Freyr would be a fine match—an unparallelled match—but they would serve these radicals and miscreants as a figurehead only.”

“Sif loves Freyr only as family. As she is my sister in spirit so Freyr is her uncle. She would not wed him.”

Odin clucked in derision. “Many say these things one decade and change their tune in the next. For the right impetus she may yet wed your mother’s brother.”

“She would not.”

“It does not matter!” Odin fairly yelled. Freya shifted in discomfort under the golden cloak of spells. Odin winced at her movement, murmuring something soothing to her. “It does not matter what Sif would or would not do,” he continued more quietly. “It matters only what the people think she would do, and their knowing of her is only through tales of her brash bravery and country tongue at court. They like as not think she will speak as one of them once seated and cause the realms to shift on their axes to suit their provincial whims. Their dreams of her doings are far beyond those given warrant by her action or word.”

Thor mulled that over. “I like it not.”

“It is a good thing that your liking it does not figure into my actions. Huginn and Muninn have been sent as emissary to Midgard to negotiate Sif’s... safekeeping. Until we may find Freyr and your mother may convince him to speak with these rebels I fear the realm will be a tinderbox.”

“My uncle is a man of gentle spirit and kind word,” Thor replied. Freyr was not often at court, spending most of Thor’s childhood in Alfheimr and having since been traveling the nine realms. What he did remember of his uncle was a congenial, well-loved man of bountiful appetites both sexual and otherwise, and an easy manner which brought even his shyly reticent brother from his shell.

“Aye, but he is sly in his own ways.” Thor studied his father. He had always respected the canny wisdom of his forebearer, but since his brother’s repeated betrayal and insanity, the Allfather had been growing harsh and suspicious. Thor could not help but wonder if the people would have been put to rest by the right kind word and proper generous action. “Heimdall has seen Freyr coming and going through Jotunheim. He attempts to cloak his movements, but Skithblathnir leaves trace as surely as skates on the ice. We have sent heralds to every corner of the realms to ask him in but yet he hides from me. If he had naught to hide why not present himself? He plots with these lawless men, I fear.”


	13. Chapter 13

Huginn and Muninn stood as tall as Fury in blue-black suits. Huginn might have been female and Muninn might have been male, but it was a close call. They weren’t identical, but it was difficult for Phil to say how they were different, both with skin almost ebony-black, and hair shining with a glossy health. They were the very definition of otherworldly.

Phil felt a shiver creep up and down his spine as their unblinking eyes settled on him. Muninn inclined his head without breaking eye contact while Huginn simply stared. Phil returned the gesture. Apparently satisfied, the pair turned to Fury. Both bowed to him, arms spread back and away from their bodies in an apparent form of obeisance. “You wanted to speak to me?” Fury asked, short and to the point.

Muninn cocked his head. Huginn spoke. “The Allfather requests a boon of your people.” Her voice was slightly mocking, as though the idea of requesting a boon from such lower creatures was amusing to her.

“I’m listening.”

“The presence of the Lady Sif at court is...” she paused looking discomfited. “We believe the Lady’s presence breeds strife where once there was only accord.”

“And this is my problem how?”

“Instability at court will disrupt the free exchange of information between our peoples,” Huginn replied slyly.

“I wouldn’t call what we have going on right now ‘free’,” Fury replied, hand on his hip.

“Regardless, we can assure you that were the Lady Sif to be thrust to power, it would result in a cessation of contact and hostility towards Midgard’s aspirations of travel and expansion.”

Phil scrutinized Muninn, who remained silent through the proceedings. Muninn glanced about the office, stared with a predator’s focus at Fury, and turned his gaze on Phil once more. This time it seemed less assessing and more amused, as though he were in on a joke to which Phil was not privy.

Fury crossed his arms with a glower. “So what do you want me to do about it? No offense to your ideas, but court is a long way from here.”

“Precisely. If the Lady were to come to Midgard as an extended envoy it would remove her from play at court.” A smirk played around Huginn’s mouth at her own pun. “She would be protected in this backwater of the nine realms, and those who would see her put to power would find themselves without a figurehead.”

“I’m going to have to discuss this with my people,” Fury replied.

“I am sure we need not remind you that your permission is simply a courtesy in this matter. We could send the Lady here without your permission.”

“I’m aware of that. Having you yutzes use my world as a third-rate penal colony isn’t really what I’d call grand political skills, though. I don’t appreciate you or your king strong-arming us into serving as your political meat puppets.”

Huginn gave Fury a look that was pure amused condescension.

“In the interest of interstellar cooperation, though, I am relatively certain we can provide adequate accommodations and security for the Lady Sif.”

“Your world’s generosity will not go unremarked.” Huginn and Muninn bowed once more and departed.

\--

Phil did _not_ approve of the situation with Sif, but neither could he object to the action being taken on her behalf. If removing her from the equation on Asgard would actually help settle things as he had been led to believe, then it was hardly a course of action he could begrudge. In all honesty, part of his frustration with the situation had to do with him being the one to deal with an angry, sometimes confused, and always unhappy pair of Asgardians. A week had been long enough, but it was coming close to fourteen days and it felt like an unannounced visit from the in-laws that Would Not End.

“This is not the manner I would choose to deal with these problems,” Sif told him in a moment of candor. “Those which I might face head-on with steel in my hand are the challenges I prefer; the dance of diplomacy was never one I had a taste for.”

The idea of sending Sif and her companion, Hogun the Grim into the mountains, as far away from central New York as was practical given the need for communication with Asgard, to mope and kill something was frankly inspired. Captain Rogers had actually proposed the idea, having gleaned some knowledge of their culture in an after-dinner chat.

“Thank you, Captain,” Phil told him, meaning it wholeheartedly.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck at his hairline, “I was just trying to get them something to do that wasn’t beating up on me, honestly. I haven’t been this sore since after the—” abruptly he cut himself off. “I’m sure they’d enjoy some time away from the city.”

Things between him and the Captain had remained awkward. Phil knew most of that was on him. He’d never in his most hopeful dreams thought he would meet Captain America, and that fanboy tendency had surfaced, leading Rogers to the feeling that Phil was just a little strange, and maybe a stalker. They interacted civilly enough but Phil always got the idea that Rogers wanted to flee before Phil said anything awkward.

Things had been set up. Stark offered a family property in the Pennsylvania mountains which was nestled amongst public lands and large swaths of undeveloped country as their base of operations. Equipment had been packed and sent from Asgard. All Phil was responsible for was their itinerary and personnel.

Darcy laid a hand which had been subjected to a rather sloppy home manicure over his, startling him enough to raise his eyes to meet hers. “I got it, boss man. Really.”

“Did you—”

“I got their diplomatic IDs in order, I got their weapons and concealed weapons permits, I got them hunting and fishing permits for everything from bunnies to an every-ten-year black bear permit. I got them logging and trash burning permits in case they decide they need a yule log, Stark’s catering has them provisioned and Hawkeye is their security detail. Not that much short of another god could fuck up the Aesir. They have maps and Clint is driving. Stark’s lodge has been aired out and freshened by the gamekeeper; who the fuck has a gamekeeper? It’s Sif and Hogun: they’re by _far_ the most mentally stable of Thor’s buddies.” She squeezed his hand and withdrew it slowly.

“You’re quite good at this, Ms. Lewis,” Phil told her with a wry smile.

“Yeah, well, you run enough Young Radicals float trips and you get good at these things. At least we probably won’t have to bail any of them out of jail.”

“The diplomatic papers should take care of that,” Phil agreed.


	14. Chapter 14

“Coulson,” Fury greeted when his call picked up.

“Director,” Phil returned with a frown. He’d sent Barton and the Asgardians off to the mountains not twelve hours ago, and nothing else he was involved in should have garnered Fury’s interest.

“I have a feeling in my gut. I don’t like the Asgardians out there with only Barton looking after them.”

“I’m sure Barton is up to the task,” Phil replied, only the faintest hint of doubt coloring the statement.

“With the way Barton’s been acting lately, I’m not so sure. I’ve decided you could use some R&R as well. Go up there. Put your feet up. Keep an eye on everyone.”

“Sir, I’m not sure that I’d be welcome—”

“Did I sound like I was asking?” Fury asked, sharp annoyance in his voice. “Get up there and spy on some aliens for me.”

Phil looked about his room, wishing for something to jump up and give him a reason why he couldn’t go to a remote cabin with only his recalcitrant asset and two aliens in need of distraction. Nothing popped up. “Yes, sir.”

\--

The hunting lodge was something ridiculous, out of a different era. It was the first place in which Sif and Hogun looked at home in the time Phil had known them. Huge chests of Asgardian make lined one wall, presumably filled with provisions and hunting equipment. Hogun sat by the fireplace sharpening a knife while Sif paced, threw herself dramatically upon a couch, and worried at the strap of her vambraces. Clint was actually passed out on the kitchen counter, snoring gently and with his eyes slitted open. Phil passed slowly to his agent and brushed his eyelids closed, running his fingers through Barton’s hair in a way he hadn’t been allowed in a long time. Physical contact had been a touchstone of their friendship for them both in the early years, but as they took on more responsibility with divergent skill sets, it had fallen by the wayside in favor of professionalism. Since Phil had returned from the dead, Barton had kept at distance except for his initial contact. He tried to tell himself that Barton’s rejection hadn’t stung, but the simple touch now was a clandestine balm.

“Son of Coul,” Hogun greeted raspily.

Phil’s pulled his hand out of Clint’s hair, guilt and shame warring for dominance. Barton wouldn’t have welcomed his touch if he were awake to object, and it was tantamount to taking advantage merely to sate his own need for physical reassurance. Hogun rose with the customary Asgardian grace and strode to meet Phil. “I was pleased that the fates chose to spare both your lives on the day of your great battle with the Traitor.” He clasped forearms with Phil in a warrior’s handshake and gave a dip of his head. He’d managed to stay out of the way enough that Phil and Hogan hadn’t spoken since Sif’s exile.

“Indeed,” Sif agreed from his other side. “With so much tainted and lost that day it gladdened my heart that an honorable ally persevered. I was saddened we met again under such dark circumstances but your wit and fortitude is sore needed in unraveling this puzzle.” Phil felt himself coloring under Sif’s intense stare. Her eyes were bright and honest, betraying her own pain at the circumstances which left her exiled on Midgard. She broke eye contact with an unhappy frown. “Come: break the fast with us. There is small beer and bread.”

The kitchen looked as though they had raided a Dutch town from a hundred years ago. Three casks sat along one wall and a basket sat atop those, overflowing with hearty brown bread. A wheel of cheese and a wooden crock of butter the size of a softball sat beside. Phil would have called the provisioning ridiculous except that he was familiar with an Asgardian appetite. Hogun and Sif apportioned thick buttered slabs of bread and mugs of weak, sour beer over Barton’s prone form. It was unlike him to sleep through a commotion. “Is he alright?” Phil asked, settling with his food.

“Aye. I fear we plied him too well with our homeland’s brew,” Sif said with a mischievous smile.

“He will recover by mid-day,” Hogun added.

Phil took a sip of the beer and grimaced, setting it aside. Beer for breakfast was an idea best left in college, for him. “Is there any coffee?” he asked without much hope.

“Aye—some of your bitter brew may be found therein...” Sif gestured at the trunks, “somewhere. I confess I did not attend the packing of aught but my own gear for the hunt.”

Phil resolved to sort through the supplies packed for them when he had a quiet moment. He sank his teeth into the thick buttered bread and let out an involuntary sigh. His tongue sent signals of pleasure and nourishment at the flavors of the nutty wheat and dairy fat. He felt himself melt into his chair, momentarily stunned by sensory overload. It seemed as though he had not truly experienced anything for an interminable span of months, or the Asgardian fare had some special qualities. Perhaps it was the fresh mountain air or perhaps it was the feeling of sitting amongst gods, but everything was much more immediate. The omnipresent ache in his chest eased infinitesimally. When Phil opened his eyes, Hogun was eyeing him speculatively.

Into the quiet, Barton snorted and moaned, beginning to wake.

“The Hawk stirs.” Sif turned a fond look on Barton that did little to chase the sadness from her face. “We may yet find a trail to run before sundown.” Barton groaned and tried to roll over, actually managing to roll himself off the counter. He dropped with a yelp onto the seats of the row of bar stools and flailed, falling to the floor. Sif chuckled wickedly and Hogun even cracked a tiny smirk.

“Yuk it up, assholes,” Barton grumbled, rubbing his hand down his face to check his nose wasn’t broken.

“We do not mean to jest at your expense, merely, last night you insisted that sleeping in precarious positions was a speciality of yours.”

“Now we see you sorely disabused of that statement,” Hogun added with a sly smirk which left Phil wondering how well the Allspeak translated puns.

“How stands your constitution?” Sif asked.

Barton covered his eyes with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. “Only time will tell,” he said, turning his back to the living area to go through what Phil thought of as Hawkeye Calisthenics. He stretched and grunted while Sif watched, covertly lascivious. Hogun quirked an amused eyebrow at Sif and downed the rest of his beer. “I’m actually not—” Clint turned towards them with a pleased smile and, “Jesus fuck!” saw Phil. He froze mid-movement.

“Barton,” Phil greeted mildly.

Sif and Hogun filled in the social gulf yawning between Phil and his former asset, feeding Barton bread and more beer and some of the huge wheel of cheese along with some herbs Hogun put together. Explaining what Barton meant when he said, “hair of the dog,” before drinking his beer took a while as neither of them quite knew what the saying referenced. In surprisingly short order the Asgardians had Barton marshalled and ready for their hunting trip.

“What are you going after?” Phil asked, mostly just professionally curious.

“We have heard the bear is the most fearsome beast to roam these woods, but any of appropriate size to provision us will be good sport,” Sif told him. Hogun had his mace and a knife as long as his forearm. She had a sword in a scabbard and a halberd which was a head taller than her. Sif was truly beautiful in a way that went above and beyond the perfection that seemed to mark the Aesir. The flickering joy of combat danced in her eyes, and her figure was the coiled muscle of a wild beast. Her lips curved, full and pleased, as she anticipated the hunt.

“That’s all you guys are—okay, whatever.” Barton held up his hands in mock surrender. He had holstered two handguns, shouldered his bow and quiver, and strapped a knife to his leg. “Bears are fucking serious business,” Barton muttered under his breath, glancing up at the towering Asgardians with well-masked apprehension.

“I’ll be here,” Phil confirmed to nobody in particular, as Barton wasn’t talking to him and Sif and Hogun were already aware of that fact. “Radio if you get into trouble or if you’re planning on being in after dark.”

“Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary,” Hogun assured him. “Your Hawk will be returned like as not with the spoils of our efforts.”

For as boisterous as they normally were, they left the cabin as quietly as any of his covert agents. Phil found himself with little to do. He had been sent up to the cabin as a babysitter, a snitch, and a man on holiday. The Asgardians could take care of themselves—anything with Thor’s constitution couldn’t be too much helped by anything Phil could do—and Barton was a quiet, capable shadow. He had reports to catch up on and his physical therapy to do, but beyond that it was rest and relaxation time.

Phil had never been good at rest and relaxation.

His chest wound wasn’t so terrible. It was almost an old friend at this point, calling him to complain about a change in the weather or being overworked the previous day. It would hold out another few hours before he would need a rest, and likely a nap. The desire to nap prompted a search for coffee.

Asgardian workmanship was beautiful. Phil supposed that when you had the equivalent of a hundred human lifetimes you could pour all your artistry into something as simple as a provisioning box. Odin’s royal seal marked the top of the chests in embossed relief and paint and gold scroll work, signifying his blessing of Sif’s exile/political retreat. The handles were thick leather and ropey chain.

He opened the chest and found a mix of Asgardian items and earth supplies. Clearly Pepper had had some hand in the provisioning, as he recognized Tony’s preferred brands of... everything. 

The first chest was what Phil decided to call small clothes and luxury items—sweets, some liquor, and fancy bath products in addition to Asgardian underthings. The second chest was half-emptied. Armor and weapons were removed leaving a few huge furs, skinning knives, and cooking pots. The final chest smelled promising, and Phil dove in hopefully. There were flashlights and rope, tarps, tape, apples and oranges, and finally, precious coffee. He pulled out the brown sack which leaked roasted smells and fond memories. Below the coffee rested an oblong, glowing gently. The filigree across its surface didn’t look Asgardian but it also didn’t appear to be in an Earth style. Two spiraling minarets jutted from either end of it as handholds. Within the oblong, like cream mixing into coffee, a cascade of entropy swirled and ate itself.

Phil stopped, coffee beans in hand, mesmerized and apprehensive. The provisions had been packed, first on Asgard and then on Earth by trusted service people. For this to have gone unremarked upon either indicated an extraordinary oversight or that it was simply harmless. Phil got out his satellite phone and began making calls.

The mysticism department at SHIELD had expanded exponentially but that only meant that there were two practitioners instead of none at their disposal. Neither of them was particularly skilled and the “magicians” they had for consultation were sporadically available at best. Phil disliked magic and all the implied chaos that it accompanied. It was clear that whatever it was, it should not have been there.

Phil dialed Barton as soon as he was off the phone with SHIELD. He didn’t pick up, either because they were at a sensitive part of the hunt or because he was still in a fit of pique and not speaking to Phil. Either way, their SHIELD mysticism expert was many hours out and there was little he could do until then. The sun was six hours or so from setting, which left Phil alone with a magical artifact, and little to do. He made a cup of coffee and settled in to wait.


	15. Chapter 15

Phil’s stomach had turned sour from the coffee before the hunting party returned. He’d spent the hours drinking cup after cup, sitting on the lodge’s porch after finishing his waiting paperwork. At some point he had dozed off in the dappled afternoon light and woken feeling clearer but no less anxious. He heard Sif before he saw any of them. She was singing a ballad, or a war march, or perhaps reciting a poem. Her voice was not sweet but it rang strong and clear like a commander’s on the battlefield.

Sif had a dead wild hog slung over her shoulders. It looked easily the same size as her, but it gave her no trouble. Hogun carried their armaments while Barton brought up the rear. Sif dropped the beast under a tree near the porch. “Come—there is rope enough within our provisions to hang this beast for butchering. The taste of swine flesh will be sweet this night.”

Barton had a disbelieving sort of smirk as though he was unsure how he got paired up with the loonies. The smirk fell when he saw Phil watching him. Phil took that as his cue to speak up. “I’ve found something you should see,” he said calmly. Barton frowned and nodded, following Phil into the lodge. Sif and Hogun were already standing over the ovoid, staring at it in shock. The thing swirled with every color in shades both vibrant and muddy. It was more active than it had been previously. “I discovered that in the baggage this morning. It didn’t seem good.”

“No,” Hogun agreed solemnly. “I have never seen a device such as this. I fear its purpose may be only malevolent.”

Sif reached for it, and the world exploded.

They were all thrown backwards by a force which was accompanied by a burst of lights and the sucking vacuum of sound Phil associated with the seconds after a bomb blast. Phil didn’t recall a blow to the head that would have knocked him out, but he woke only a few minutes later with a pounding headache, so there must have been one. Sif and Hogun remained unconscious and Barton had vanished. _Fuck_ Phil thought. _God damn fuck, fuck._ The room seemed huge, and when he tried to stand it became obvious why. 

His shoes flopped loosely on his feet, tripping him up. His pants slid down with the weight of his belt, effectively hobbling him. The cuffs of his shirt slid over his small hands. He wasn’t the right size and everything was wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

Confusion and dread chased one another around and around his thoughts until his mind was whipped into a cyclone of near panic. His breath coming too fast and hard but without the usual hitch and stab of pain was what finally shook him out of his panic. He threw off his button down in his haste to get to the familiar companion that was the remnants of his chest wound. Smooth flesh met his eyes and fingers. His undershirt did a good enough job of covering him to mid-thigh so he shucked his shoes and pants and hurried to check on Sif and Hogun. Sif’s pulse was strong while Hogun’s was thready. He blocked out the fact that his fingers were too small and soft, and that he was much too short, and any number of other small indicators that everything had gone very, very pear-shaped.

“Barton?” he called, his voice coming out thready and too high. A hesitant meow met his query. A cat, and _where the fuck had that come from_ , was frozen as though caught being naughty crouched underneath one of the Asgardian chests.

Phil dug through his pants for the sat phone, pressing the Director’s speed dial number.

“Talk to me,” the Fury answered curtly.

“Sir, I need a medevac team flown in immediately. Barton’s vanished, Sif and Hogun are down, and I don’t believe I’ll be able to get us back into town.”

“Who is this?” the Director asked suspiciously.

“There’s been an incident, sir.” Phil winced at the sound of his own voice, wrong in his ears and no doubt Fury’s.

“I’m going to need you to set up the video feed, son,” Fury told him in his “calming civilians” voice.

Phil flicked on the video capabilities and held the phone so the camera was appropriately positioned. They were bleeding bandwidth from the international space station, but what did that matter? Fury’s own picture flicked on, eyebrow raised. “I’m afraid you’re going to need to go through your call and response with Hill before we can send out medical personnel.”

“Understood but please have them prepped.” Phil was more than a little proud that his voice was steady. His eyes skipped away from the tiny picture in picture which was what Fury saw.

The screen switched to Hill who frowned at her screen and went through their call and response verifications with her usual professionalism. The last time Phil had had to do that he had been more than half dead and suffering from the after effects of a bad concussion. He felt as though he was moving through murky water. Everything was over-bright and smeared. Phil carded his fingers through his hair, pressing on the seams of his skull to check for bleeding or fractures.

Hill paused in the call and response routine, a tender concern flashing across her features. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Not particularly,” he admitted. “You know my feelings on magic,” he added as a non sequitur.

“Okay. Medevac teams are scrambled. The mystics team should arrive at about the same time for ordnance disposal.” Hill paused for a moment. “What do you think happened to Barton?”

Phil cast a glance around the room, “I don’t know. I’m going to check the bedrooms and then see if there’s any trail leading to the woods.”

The bedrooms were empty and unused. He checked in the common areas once more, professionally ignoring how everything was over-large, the door knobs too high, and his hands small and soft and without appreciable nicks or callouses. Barton was nowhere.

The front door was closed and locked from the inside. It gave him little hope that his asset had wandered out in a state of disorientation, but nevertheless he went to check. The forest outside was a mess. He had seen the results of the detonation of a variety of ordnance, from pure explosive blasts to radiation and toxic gasses. 

The forest outside was _alien_. Plants he couldn’t identify grew in untenable configurations. Parts of the landscape were pocked with burned out patches while others grew with huge fungus and plant life, massive trees had twisted and changed into something out of a horticulturist fever dream. He saw the corpses of a few larger animals, and heard the calls of many others transmuted into beasts Earthlings had yet to classify. Some areas roiled with gooey sludge while others were covered in algal growth.

The rocks and loam appeared unaffected, as did the gravel drive up to the lodge. Everything living had changed or died. Phil was momentarily struck dumb. A flock of bat things or perhaps tiny dragons shook him out of his stupor. The incoming teams would be able to handle themselves and he could concern himself with cleanup once they got the Asgardians taken care of and found Barton.

When he got back to the unconscious pair, the tawny cat was hunched near Sif’s face, paw reaching out tenderly to poke her cheek. Sif groaned expressively and her eyelashes fluttered open.

Phil and the cat both perked up at the whump-whump sound of an approaching helicopter. Sif winced and rolled into a seated position. “What foul magic has been unleashed upon us?” Sif asked, looking as though she was struggling not to throw up. The cat leapt onto the kitchen counter and darted into a corner on top of the upper shelves.

“I’m not sure. We have specialists coming in as we speak. How are you feeling?”

She crawled over to Hogun and lay her ear to his chest. She held her hand in front of his nose and mouth to feel the flow of air and was apparently satisfied. “I have an ache in my bosom which is troubling, and an ache in my head, though the cause of that seems obvious.” She eyed him up and down. “You are aware you appear much changed?”

Phil sighed.


	16. Chapter 16

“What the ever-loving fuck, Phil,” Fury greeted him with a disgusted shake of his head.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure how—”

“Just go to medical. We can debrief after you get checked out.”

Phil was escorted to the infirmary. He would have been offended but the fact was, under the same circumstances he would have insisted on similar precautions. He had to almost trot to keep up with his escort. Phil was generally well-regarded amongst medical staffers; he rarely got sent to them for doing something stupid, and when he did require treatment he followed the medical directives scrupulously. More often he had been the sensible one standing by to restrain and threaten his assets into cooperation.

“What’s this?” The CMO on duty asked, eyeing Phil suspiciously. Apparently word hadn’t gotten down to the infirmary yet. Phil could hear Sif’s strident objections coming from a private exam room.

“Agent Coulson was caught in the Asgardian bomb blast,” his escort told the doctor.

“And?” Phil spread his hands in a helpless gesture. He realized he probably looked pathetic and cold in a pair of over-large socks, falling down boxer shorts, undershirt and shock blanket. “Oh you are fucking with me. Seriously?” The doctor squatted down so she was on Phil’s level.

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” his escort responded evenly.

“Well screw me blind.”

“I don’t believe I would be able to oblige, given the situation,” Phil said with a completely straight face.

She turned a bright shade of red and began laughing. “Let me see if I can find someone who’s given a pediatric physical more recently than twenty years ago.” She disappeared to confer with her medical staff.

“That went better than expected,” Phil commented to his shadow, earning a grin.

“Do you need anything before I leave you, sir?”

Phil looked up and up and up at his escort, pathetically grateful for the acknowledgement of his rank. It wasn’t that he was in the habit of ignoring the newer agents and recruits, but after working in SHIELD for more than twenty years, the attrition rate added up to a lot of people Phil had seen once or twice or ten times who he had simply never seen again. People whose fate he had never been required to investigate and hadn’t had the energy to ask about.

His escort was of median height and stocky with the look of a prospect they had poached from the Naval Academy. “What’s your name?” he asked mildly. His escort came to a sort of attention.

“Trainee Cardoza, Sir.”

Phil stuck out a hand which was taken in a brief and professional handshake. Phil assessed his bodily needs. “Could you ask the nurse to send me something nutritionally appropriate on your way out, please?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“And that will be all.”

The CMO reappeared a moment later with a very young-looking doctor. SHIELD’s recruitment of medical staff fell into three categories; medical researchers on the outer bounds of science who also happened to have MD degrees and up-to-date board certification, doctors who found trauma care to be too slow-paced, and newly-minted doctors fresh out of their residencies who SHIELD cherry-picked from regional hospital applicants on the basis of psych evaluations. This doctor appeared to be a member of the last group, still coming to grips with her situation on the cutting-edge intersection of secret police, alien defenders, and super science.

“I don’t feel qualified for this,” she said, hands stuffed deeply in her lab coat pockets. “I think it would be best to get him looked at in County Children’s.”

“You don’t need to perform pediatric heart surgery on him—just do the baselines. The last time I evaluated anyone under twenty it must have been...” the CMO frowned.

“Barton,” Phil supplied, recalling the scruffy, filthy, terrified, underfed teen his asset had grown from with a pang.

The CMO smiled fondly. “Yeah, must have been. That little shit. Where is he, by the way?”

Phil’s mood darkened. “He’s as yet unaccounted for.”

Sif chose that moment to burst out of her private exam room, breastplate removed leaving her in a linen shift and trousers. A blood pressure cuff trailing its cord was fastened around her arm having been ripped from the wall and her hair was in disarray.

“Tell these physikers that I will not be healed by their arts! I must be returned to my people.” She turned to Phil, brightening and looking beseechingly at him, “Son of Coul; did you retrieve the Hawk while I was not aware?”

“We couldn’t find him. I was going to ask for your help in tracking where he might have been taken.”

“But verily I saw him when I awoke. He had been transmogrified into a small creature which runs on four legs.”

“He was the cat?” Phil asked incredulously. “The feline? About this big with yellow fur and whiskers?”

“Aye, the feline. I was trying to—”

Phil snapped at the CMO urgently, “I need a line to Sitwell right now.” Phil got it. “Sitwell, report on the search.”

“Coulson?” Phil could practically hear the frown through the line. “Nothing yet. There’s a lot of crazy ass shit going on up here. The juniors are wrangling a herd of I shit you not dodo birds.”

“Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Barton is the cat.” There was silence on the line for a long moment. “Jasper?”

“We’re on it.” Coulson hung up when he started hearing Sitwells shouted orders. He’d once seen Sitwell wrangle a herd of kangaroo—one Barton shouldn’t be that much more difficult, even if he was smaller.

Phil sighed in relief. “I have my best man on it.” Sif nodded in satisfaction. Only then did Phil notice the swirling marks roiling under the skin of her neck and chest. “What is that?”

Sif glowered. “I know not, though it has the taint of the Traitor about it. It pains me only minorly, though it no doubt has some hidden and devious nature.”

“We were trying to determine if it was in her blood, but—” Sif’s doctor held up a bent needle.

“Get her checked out by the mystics before authorizing intergalactic travel. Can you handle yourself with the doctors?” Phil asked Sif politely. The doctors all exchanged loaded looks.

“Aye. These physikers will do me no harm beyond delaying my departure to my own realm.”

“Then, doctor?” Phil turned to his own medical professional, “I’m sure you’re going to do fine. Lets get this taken care of so I can get back to my job.”

“Of course. Right this way.” She ushered him into a private room that was quiet and familiar. He had spent countless hours in this room and others like it, waiting for his assets to wake after a particularly bad injury or making sure they didn’t try to escape when their injuries didn’t preclude consciousness.

There was a bit of a shuffle involved in getting Phil up onto the bed which was higher on his small frame than that of an adult. The doctor moved to hoist him up and then stepped back abruptly, hands in a non-threatening position. “Sorry. I’m— I can’t believe I did that, sir.”

\--

Phil left medical with a sheet of do’s and don’ts (Do: Meals or snacks every three hours, at least eight hours of sleep and optional two hours of napping, Don’ts: coffee, alcohol, combat training, exposure to chemotoxic chemicals), strict orders to let his subordinates take care of things for him, and appropriately-sized clothes thanks to a junior agent and the Gap Kids a few blocks away. Happy Hogan was waiting at security to take him back to the Tower. He greeted Phil with equanimity.

Rogers was pacing the foyer looking a bit wild when Phil walked in .

“Talk to me.”

“Coulson?” Rogers asked almost hesitantly. Phil nodded. “I don’t want to worry you but we lost Clint.”

“You what,” Phil stated more than asked.

“Tony convinced SHIELD to bring Clint back here because it would be easier to study him and JARVIS could keep track of him and when they opened the box Clint made a break for it into the duct work.” Phil relaxed. “We aren’t sure how much of himself he’s retained and Tony is terrified he’ll get sucked into a circulation fan.” That was less than reassuring. Phil had assumed Barton would have retained his faculties much like Phil, but the idea of his asset fleeing scared through the air ducts with only animal instincts to guide him was terrifying. “We’re trying to lure him out with food, but...” Rogers trailed off helplessly.

“That won’t work,” Phil replied shortly. When stressed, Barton could go days barely eating and would not be tempted by food if he thought danger was lurking nearby. Before his transformation, Phil wouldn’t have attempted following Barton into the ceilings between his adult size and a shoulder that only sporadically supported him. “I’m going up after him.”

“Tony is outfitting some ROV’s for search,” Rogers told him as though that would be sufficient. Phil met the Captain’s eyes steadily, “And I’m sure your help would be appreciated.”

“Excellent. Where is Stark?”

Steve glanced around the foyer as though looking for some sort of backup. When none was forthcoming he admitted, “In the workshop.”

Phil rode the executive elevator to Stark’s workshop where a standoff was obviously in progress between Stark and a distraught Thor.

"Chaos... bomb?"

"The Allspeak would call it an entropy detonation but your words are reasonably correct as well."

"How exactly does one make an IED composed of magical entropy?" Tony asked glaring at Thor. "And why wasn't I asked to consult on it?"

"There was no time. The Son of Coul and Hawkeye were monitoring it for the Fury when it detonated."

"How would you even—they can't have known what they were doing with it."

"Would you have? Midgardians are poorly equipped for the mystic elements my kind have wrought upon your world. In some ways I regret opening the doorway between our realms for the harm it has brought upon both our worlds, but the price of progress is ever high." Thor shook his head sadly. "My father warned me against the dangers of opening that which could not be once more sealed but I did not listen. Were it not for the fair Lady Jane and the comrades I have fought with in Midgard I would bear only regret upon thinking of my actions linking our realms."

"Yeah, well I'm regretting it now for the both of us."

Thor looked wounded. "I will search tirelessly with the practitioners of this realm to heal them from their transformations, but there is little else I can think to do."

Phil lurked, waiting to see how the argument would pan out; whether the two men would come to an agreement or if the seeds of enmity would be planted only to fester.

Tony sighed and scrubbed his face with a hand. "I know you're working on it. It's just... We just got him back and now this."

"Aye. Further misfortune afflicting them both after the hardships they have endured seems the epitome of injustice."

"Fuck. Yeah, Clint—has anybody seen him?"

"Since his recovery, nay. He was sighted once at his point of ingress but no person has been able to trap him. We may assume by his movements that he is well enough physically."

"Yeah, well. I prefer not to assume when I can help it. JARVIS—what’s the update on the ROV search patterns?"

Stark actually yelped in surprise when Phil coughed discreetly, making his presence known. Thor nodded gravely and rumbled an apology to Phil over his state. “Never mind that,” Phil waved off the apology. “JARVIS?”

“The cleaning bots have reported an increased incidence of movements classed within the small mammal spectrum within the last four hours likely attributable to Agent Barton. If you would look at the map, each incident is marked with red-blue heat map based on how recently each incident was reported.” JARVIS replied smoothly, pulling up a three dimensional map of the building and its ductwork. 

The most recent activity seemed concentrated in the interconnected areas between the Avengers’ floors and the medical floors. On reflection that made sense; Barton was no longer in possession of either thumbs or a screwdriver and was likely constrained to his normal traversal patterns where most of the screens and vents were already removed or loosened.

In the helicarrier, Barton had preferred the non-operations areas for his usual hiding spots. He was an intense gossip hound and enjoyed the look of terror when he pranked junior agents using information gleaned from his ceiling-dwelling habits. The routes between Barton’s quarters, Natasha’s, and Phil’s office were well worn, and Phil had more than once had to request Barton remove his bedding from certain junctures as it was causing a heating and cooling issue simultaneously in a whole block of private quarters. He didn’t know exactly where Barton was, but he could make some educated guesses and at least attempt to get his asset back out in the open.

“I’ll go up after him,” Phil stated.

“The bots are—”

“That wasn’t a request, Mr. Stark.” Phil held out a hand imperiously to the miniature tablet with which Stark was manipulating the map. Stark visibly blanched. He eyed Phil up and down.

“I don’t think you’re really in a state to be wandering through my duct work,” he said finally.

“You’re not in a position to make that call. I’ll take a penlight, too, if you have one.”

“If you go up in there and get stuck or die or get younger then we’re just completely fucked and down a Phil again; you realize that, right?”

“The bomb did its work.” Turning to Thor he asked, “What do you think the chance of further regression is?”

“Small enough,” Thor replied with a rumble of discontent. “These magics strike sudden and deadly as lightning.”

Phil stared Stark down steadily. “I’m probably in better shape physically than I have been in months, and I’m appropriately sized for the work. I’ll find him or lure him out. Now are you going to give me the a penlight or am I going to have to find one myself?”

Stark gave him more than a penlight; loading him up with as much Stark Tech as he could carry without becoming encumbered. Phil started at the point where Barton had disappeared; Thor easily boosted him into the duct nearly at the ceiling. From the height, Phil marveled that Barton had managed to get up to that point at all, before scooting around and beginning slow, cramped progress.

Phil had done his stints in cramped, difficult-to-maneuver places. He was intimately familiar with what his frame could normally fit through with how much minor muscle ligament strain after years in the Rangers. The experience of spelunking through the Stark Tower ducts was actually pleasant in comparison to most of those. He occasionally ran into small cleaning/security bots that he suspected Stark had designed after realizing how much time Barton and Natasha spent in the ceilings. Because of this, the ducts were remarkably dirt-free. Unfortunately because of this, any hair that Barton might have left in his flight had been tidied up neatly. Phil tracked through the tunnels for hours, reporting his progress to JARVIS. At each turning he would stop, let the air flow over him as he listened to the ambient noise, and choose a direction. Partly it was aimless wandering, but he liked to think that some of it drew on his intimate knowledge of his asset.

Only once, while stopped at a juncture between Natasha’s floor and some of the guest quarters, he thought he heard a tremulous animal noise and the nerve-wrenching scraping metal sound that animal claws elicited. Rushing through junctures he got no closer to finding his wayward asset. Frustrated, he settled down in a juncture by a heating duct to wait. Barton was nearby, he was certain.


	17. Chapter 17

Phil woke warm and muzzy. He’d dozed off and pitched over sideways in the soporific shush-shush of the warm air flow. Something tickled at his nose and rumbled comfortingly along his chest. A soft, gingery weight had wormed its way between his arms while he slept and was spooned up against his front, purring loudly. "Barton," Phil murmured quietly. Barton's ears twitched and he stretched, as long as Phil's torso when he did so. His head swiveled, meeting Phil's gaze, the same kaleidoscope of hazel and blue that Phil remembered. Barton yawned and casually rubbed his cheek against Phil's chin, scent marking him.

Nobody had gotten a good look at Barton since he had been recovered from the site of the blast. His quick transit into the duct work upon reaching the Tower had precluded any intense observation.

"Do you mind if I..." Phil asked, stroking a small hand down a long flank. Barton stretched once more and went boneless under the touch. Barton was a particularly long specimen of cat with heavily muscled shoulders. His fur was short and patchy blond in color, matching his human hair. He was unreasonably soft, the plushy fur marked through with a roadmap of white-haired scars.

Clint made the sort of cat that put sensible people into cold sweats. He was the sort of cat that could get into baby proofing. He was the sort of cat that would knock everything that could roll off of every surface in the house, tripping you on a flotilla of pens and spools of thread and marbles and screws as soon as you walked in the door. Clint was the sort of cat that would roll over on his back casually and pretend he didn’t see you, scrunching up his somewhat mismatched face and altogether crooked ears in such an adorable manner that you wouldn’t just forgive him, you would find yourself happily running your fingers through his belly fur and going to find him a bite to eat.

This was the most direct contact Barton had had with anybody since the transformation. Phil was unsure what had brought on the sudden need for socialization from his asset, but given how poorly Phil had served him recently, he wasn't feeling the need to ask. He simply curled his arms around his asset and dropped back to sleep.

He woke for the second time, cold and as cramped as his young body would ever get. Phil suspected that children suffered the same sorts of aches that adults often did and that it was simply a matter of them not really noticing them that made it seem as though children were immune from pain. He groaned and turned over, freezing under the formidable regard of his asset-turned-housecat.

"Barton."

If a cat could come to attention, Barton did, haunches tightening, shoulders drawing back, and whiskers twitching attentively.

"Are you ready to go back into society?" he asked. Up to that moment Phil was unsure how much human-level intellect he had retained. Barton rolled his eyes and cocked his head as though to say, _ready when you are_. "Do you want me to sneak you to your room?" Barton's alarmed look and bristling fur was answer enough. Phil thought. "I figured you couldn't get in and out of any new vents since you couldn't work the screws. How about Natasha's?" Barton nodded once, tail switching in agitation or anticipation.

Phil exited his vent with all the clumsy stealth he could muster in his unfamiliar body. Barton smirked an annoyingly self-satisfied cat smirk at him and slid down the wall, landing like an olympic feline gymnast. "Showoff." Barton actually preened, licking a pink tongue down the ruff of fur around his neck. Phil cast a fond look at his agent, feeling a pang of nostalgic want.

They were in one of the conference rooms. Natasha’s was a few floors up. They walked to the elevator together, Barton with a loose, well-muscled swagger and sway to his tail. “JARVIS?” Phil asked when they got to the double doors. They opened smoothly and went directly to Natasha’s level. She wasn’t in, but they were admitted regardless.

Natasha nested in a way that Phil and Clint never allowed themselves. They weren’t stupid enough to think that she wouldn’t burn her quarters to the ground and walk away without a second glance if it became necessary, but while she was in a place she inhabited it fully. It smelled like Natasha in her quarters; a mixture of tea, pasta water, and something subtly musky and floral. Barton sniffed critically, nosing around the baseboards and a pair of shoes. Phil went to the kitchen and pulled out notecards and a pen.

Barton trotted around Natasha’s quarters, wending his way through her closet and library nook before meeting Phil at the kitchen table. Phil had written cards with “yes” and “no” on them. He held “yes” up and asked, “Can you read this?” Barton glared at it, circled to look at the card from a different direction and finally turned away, sniffing at the knife block.

Phil wrote two new cards and placed them on the table; one with a plus and one with a minus. Barton’s ability to read seemed spotty at best so would give symbology a try. “I need to establish a baseline for how much you understand and remember. I’m going to ask you some standard questions and I’d like you to answer yes or true,” Phil tapped the plus sign, “and no or false,” Phil tapped the minus. Barton had regained and maintained an unnerving focus on him, tail switching, but Phil still wasn’t sure how much human-level intelligence and memory carried over into this feline form. “Do you understand?”

Clint reached a paw out and placed it over the plus. Phil let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Your name is Clinton Francis Barton.” Phil wasn’t aware that cats could roll their eyes, but Clint managed it, tapping the plus. Phil went through personal questions about his asset with answers that called on long and short-term memory. Some of the answers he gave were genuine while others were made up. He moved on to some logic and math problems, and cat-Barton didn’t seem to have any more trouble with them than human-Barton had. When Phil got to algebra, Barton gave up answering, batting the answer cards around the table. “I think we’re done.” Barton gave him a look that very clearly said, “oh really?” “In the future, right paw yes, left paw no. Sound good?”

Barton startled him by placing his right paw over the back of Phil’s hand. The paw was soft fur and tough pads and an almost gentle pressure. Phil looked into Barton’s furry, mushed face, and those familiar eyes. Well-buried fear was perceptible to Phil only from years of practice. “We’ll get through this. I’ll get us through this.” Barton butted his head against Phil’s cheek. Barton was a lot closer to him than he’d realized. It felt like acceptance.

Without his conscious permission, Phil’s hands buried in the plushy ruff around Barton’s neck, rubbing gently. A hesitant rumble greeted the action and Barton pushed into the contact.

Phil shuddered out a breath. “I’m sorry that this happened to you. I should have—” Barton cut Phil off with his left paw, placed right next to Phil’s eye. Phil tried to start again but stopped at the press of flexing claws; a subtle but unmistakable threat. _Quit being stupid,_ Barton’s look said. He tapped Phil’s cheek with his claws once more before jumping down from the counter with enviable grace.


	18. Chapter 18

“Sir requested that I arrange delivery of some essentials for you gentlemen,” JARVIS told them.

“Excellent, thank you.”

“Mrs. Robins is on her way in.” Phil and Barton exchanged an apprehensive look.

A late-middle-aged woman bustled in pushing a cart from the loading dock. She had the slightly bored, slightly fed up look that said she had been working for Stark for quite some time, and she had Seen Things.

She looked at Barton and then Phil. “Mr. Stark said he needed things for a cat and a ten-year old boy?” she asked them. “Are you up here all by yourself?”

“We’re fine. You can leave the things and I’ll sort them out.” Barton yowled something that was probably meant to be encouraging. Mrs. Robins’ eyebrows hiked.

“Even so, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you two to be up here alone. It can be dangerous if you wander into the wrong area.”

“Mister Stark has instructed that I keep an eye on them, Mrs. Robins. I assure you they will come to no harm,” JARVIS said. Mrs. Robins glanced up and around, and frowned.

“Well at least let me get the big boxes open. I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself with the boxcutters.” She flicked open a boxcutter and began slicing away at the box packaging before Phil could get out a word. She was done in moments and straightened with a huff. “You call me if you need anything or if you want to leave the apartment, okay?” she told Phil sternly.

Phil played the part. “Yes ma’am.”

She left with one last dubious glance. Phil and Barton moved towards the cart. There were several bags of clothing for Phil along with a few shoe boxes. Most of it was typical kid stuff—t-shirts, sweatshirts, long pants and shorts—but there was a pair of suits, grey and navy, along with dress shirts and ties at the bottom. Barton pounced on a trouser cuff, sank his claws into it, and rolled over on his back in an expression of amusement.

For Barton there was a litter box and a huge bag of organic litter, too large for Phil to lift, a bag of kibble, tins of fancy food, scratching surfaces, a collar and harness, brushes, combs, catnip, brightly colored toys, and enamel food and water bowls with pictures of fish in the bottom. Phil had had a cat in his early days at SHIELD, before the travel and time away made it clear that any animal without opposable thumbs and an ability to get to the grocery store without him should not be cohabiting with him. Dugan had acquired almost as many worldly possessions as Phil by the time he was adopted out to one of the scientists in R&D, and it all came crashing down again how different things were going to be for everyone while this got sorted out.

Barton was staring at the bag of litter, ears down and back in displeasure. “I know this is hard, but we’ll get through it. Let’s start with the easy stuff. You need to eat and drink.” Phil picked up the bowls and filled one with water, setting it on the counter. Barton jumped on a barstool and up on the counter, sniffing the water once and lapping at it. Phil looked at the assembled tins and kibble and tried to decide which to open. He decided on one that claimed to be chicken stew flavored, popping the top of the tin and pouring it into the food bowl. He put it next to Barton on the counter.

Barton glanced at it and stared sarcastically at him. “I know it’s cat food, but you’re a cat.” Barton sniffed the food and moved a few steps away, lying down. “You need to eat something,” Phil replied stubbornly. Barton twitched an ear, indicating he’d heard Phil but was choosing to ignore him. “It’s just like survival training.” Barton continued to ignore him.

Phil sighed. Clint would waste away and die of stubbornness before he would give in and eat. A youth composed of privation and want had left Barton well able, with the proper emotional motivation, to ignore the signals his body sent him. It made for a good agent in times of extreme duress, but in situations like this it was frustrating and, at times, dangerous.

He went to Natasha’s fridge and dug through it. There were takeout containers from their Thai restaurant of choice. Phil put them on the counter and got two plates. Barton glanced at what he was doing, betraying his curiosity. The first container was pad Thai, and Phil picked a few shrimp out of that and put them on the plate nearer Barton. He took some noodles and meat himself.

Barton approached the shrimp, sniffed them, and delicately sank his teeth into one. His teeth gave him a bit of trouble, but he quickly devoured all of the shrimp. Phil ate a bit more slowly, mindful that he shouldn’t eat as much as he was accustomed to as an adult. Barton darted for the takeout container and swiped some noodles, retreating back across the counter on three legs, trying to eat the noodles skewered on his claws as he went.

“I don’t think those are good for you,” Phil warned him. If this turned out to be a permanent condition then they’d worry about proper nutrition for long-term feline health. He was just glad Barton was eating _something_.

Phil ate a bit more and shuttled more tidbits of egg and chicken to Barton to balance out the noodles he continued to steal, and sat back, full and sleepy again. Barton sprawled on the counter, licking his jaws in satisfaction and cleaning down his paws in a raspy rhythm. He caught Phil staring at him and looked embarrassed. “So is that just instinct?” Phil asked, curious.

Barton hid his face under a paw and made a growling sort of chirrup that Phil took to mean he couldn’t help it and was embarrassed by the whole thing. “Well, I need a nap, apparently. Can you get me up in an hour or so?” Barton chirruped an affirmative, and Phil retired to one of Natasha’s couches. He stripped out of the slightly ill-fitting clothes he’d gotten at SHIELD and sacked out under one of Natasha’s sinfully soft afghans.

He woke what felt like several hours later, face pressed into the fabric of the couch, arms splayed above his head. A warm, rumbling weight was on top of him. A glance to the mirror facing the couch told him Barton was asleep, on his back, on Phil’s back. His legs were sticking in the air and his tail was draped down Phil’s butt.

“Barton?” Phil asked. Barton jerked, trying to sit upright but flailing and falling off of Phil, landing on the floor in a disgruntled heap and darting away to hide. Phil couldn’t help it. He laughed. He laughed like he couldn’t remember laughing in a long, long time, in big gulps with snorts and chuckles thrown in.

Barton stalked back in the room looking offended and outraged. “I’m sorry, you just—” Phil started giggling again. “I’m sorry I startled you.”

Barton yowled in a censorious tone.

“And I’m sorry I can’t help laughing and I will never tell anybody this happened,” Phil added between giggles.

Barton looked mollified. He considered Phil for a moment, solemn and quiet. He seemed to like Phil’s change in mood.

Phil rose and rubbed his face, wincing when he remembered why there was no trace of five o’clock shadow on his cheek. Right now it was all the little things that piled up, taunting and harassing him. Barton was frowning at him. He’d sensed Phil’s change in mood. He stood, stretching down and back, and forward again, legs shaking with the effort of it. His tail swished a few times experimentally, and he trotted towards Natasha’s door.

“We should check in with the others,” Phil agreed. “JARVIS?”

“Might I suggest a change of clothes? Sir has set up a protocol to warn if he leaves certain areas without his pants.”

Phil looked down at himself and decided yes, he probably did need to change. Barton stared at him while he dressed. Dugan had done that, but it had never bothered him as much as Barton did now. They’d seen each other naked a hundred times, between locker rooms, medical, and being captured and tied up. He knew that Clint was uncircumcised and his balls hung unevenly, tending towards the left, and that Clint’s right ass cheek was pocked with an old bullet wound when he’d gotten shot with a .22. They were Very Familiar with one another, though never in a sexual way.

If Clint had been staring at him in a similar manner while they were both physically themselves, it would be because he was bleeding from an untreated wound, or because an insect larger than his hand was crawling somewhere and he had yet to notice. “What?” Phil asked, twisting around to look at his skin.

Barton shook himself and turned away, switching his tail in agitation. “Is something wrong?” Phil asked, bewildered. Barton remained turned, spine rigid. Phil looked down at himself in child’s underwear and a diminutive button down, and he realized why Barton had been staring. It was the exact same reason he had been avoiding mirrors (made easier by the fact that he was below eye level on them now). He was not himself. He was so very, very far from himself. His teeth felt wrong and his balance was off. He felt like a soft-shelled crab, in the throes of a metamorphosis beyond his control and vulnerable because of it. He’d transitioned from one type of useless to another; from cripple to child.

He finished putting on pants and checked a jacket for fit. “Lets go.” Barton stood without looking at him and waited for Phil to lead the way.


	19. Chapter 19

Steve, Thor, and Natasha were sitting facing one another in the common kitchen. They each clutched a mug, and were wearing stoic, worried looks. Natasha gave him a once-over and met Phil’s eye. “Situation?” he asked.

“The Lady Sif—” Thor began just as Steve said, “It’s nothing you should be worrying about.”

Phil ignored them both, staring steadily at Natasha. “Sif wasn’t injured very badly in the blast, but it looks like she was infected with something. The marks you saw on her skin seem to be counting down, or counting up to something. Stark and Banner are working on her in the lab.”

“Prognosis?” Phil asked.

“She’s fine now, but they think it’ll get worse. They’re mostly worried because they don’t know _how_ it’ll get worse.” Natasha was silent for a long moment. Her eyes flicked to Barton and then back to Phil. “You found him.”

Phil straightened. “I said I would.”

“Is he...” Steve started, obviously unsure how to finish.

Barton yowled expressively. If he had been human, Phil imagined he would have said, “Jesus Christ, would you guys just stop worrying and treat me like a real fucking human being?” but seeing the predicament he was in, Phil could only interpret that Barton was distraught and making himself known in his usual, mouthy fashion.

“But you are indeed not human, Clinton,” Thor told Barton solemnly. “We could not treat you as thus were we inclined to. Fear not, though—I have suffered such ignominious transformations in my youth and as you see, I was always returned to my rightful form.”

Natasha was giving Thor a strange look, which Phil was sure he was sharing in.

“Did you just—” Steve asked in bewilderment. “Can you understand him?”

“Verily. The Allspeak translates the tongues of the beasts as well as the sentient races, though I confess most are not so cogent as the Hawk.”

“You speak Cat?” Phil clarified.

“Aye!” Thor responded. “But come my friend,” Thor said, leaning forward in his seat and reaching his hands towards Clint’s small, furry body “I have heard creatures of your form enjoy many pastimes, chief among them the chasing of the fairy lights and body worship by humans!”

Barton was making a growling uncomfortable sound that obviously did not translate to Allspeak if Thor’s confused expression was any indication. “Is there a problem friend?” Barton’s ears were back and his hair was fluffed. He glanced at Phil who stepped between the two.

“I’m not sure Barton is—”

Natasha dropped into a crouch looking at Barton. “Are you okay?”

Barton puffed up just a bit more, spun, and fled.

The silence left in his wake was pregnant. “JARVIS—can you keep an eye on him?”

“Indeed. Sir has put in a tracking algorithm which is adequate for an individual of his body mass so he will not be lost in the inner workings of the Tower again.”

“Good to know,” Phil replied acerbically, pinning Thor, then Steve and Natasha with a glare. “I just got him out of the ducts,” Phil stated.

“I apologize.” Thor hung his head. “My manner was forward, and did not account for the distress he must feel.”

“This is an understandably distressing time for Agent Barton—your empathy will be appreciated until this is sorted out.” Phil stared down Steve who looked simultaneously befuddled and ashamed of himself. “Please imagine how you would feel shrunk to one tenth your usual size and unable to communicate effectively.” 

Bruce popped out of the elevator, head buried in a printout. “Have you news?” Thor asked. Bruce’s head jerked up and he glanced, a little unfocused, at Thor and then the rest of them, stopping on Phil.

“Coulson?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Phil replied wearily.

“Wow.”

“Indeed,” Phil replied. “Sif?”

“Right, she’s—” He paused to remove his glasses and rub a palm over his face. “Whatever the magic that was cast on her, she’s working like a capacitor.”

“You’ll have to explain that more simply, doctor,” Phil told him.

“Sorry. She’s collecting small inputs of energy. Every day, everywhere we go, we’re exposed to magnetic fields, and energy, and all kinds of things. People who, say, live next to a power station get more exposure than someone out in the country. The Bifrost puts off a lot of energy, so we’re probably getting a big dose of energy too, living in the Tower. If we had some way to collect that energy, or store it, over the course of a few months it could actually be pretty substantial.”

Those gathered stared at Bruce, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“We believe whatever spell was cast on her, it is passively collecting energy and at some point, it’s going to... detonate,” he finished with a wince.

Thor’s brow furrowed. “This does not explain why Heimdall has barred her return to Asgard.”

“No, it does,” Steve insisted. Bruce nodded encouragingly. “If she travels through the Bifrost—that’s basically a tunnel connecting two parts of space, but going through them incredibly fast. That’s too much energy for her to absorb, right?”

“Bingo,” Bruce replied. “Things traveling via Bifrost are exposed to massive bursts of energy and magnetic fields of unknown strength. The likelihood is she would build up enough energy to trigger detonation. If not during transit, once she’s reached Asgard certainly.”

Thor paled. “If she were to explode in transit, it would destroy not only her and the rainbow bridge but the blast would destroy the gates at both ends.”

“And if she goes up here it’ll blow a chunk out of the Earth the size of the moon,” Bruce replied.

“It’s that powerful?” Phil asked.

Bruce shrugged. “There’s not a good way to tell. She’s got some magic stuff in her that Strange can’t get a good read on, beyond that it will exponentially magnify the energy stored within her. It could destroy the island of Manhattan. It could blow a chunk off the side of the Earth, sending the planet into an erratic orbit, disrupting magnetic fields, and leading to the destruction of the world as we know it.”

There was uncomfortable silence. “Well that sounds terrible,” Natasha said.

“If we were to send her through the Bifrost, it would probably only destroy the Tower. Maybe some of Midtown,” Bruce added. “But also, you know, the Bifrost and probably a chunk of whatever was on the other end in Asgard.”

“Could we... send her somewhere else? Somewhere not-Asgard?” Steve asked.

Phil frowned at Steve. “You’re suggesting we shoot her into space, to her death?” he asked, surprised.

“If it’s that or face the destruction of Earth, yes of course I’m suggesting that,” Steve replied hotly. “One life weighed against all the life on Earth and all the potential of life, ever; it’s hardly a contest. I’m not saying don’t try to find a solution, but we have to have contingencies in place.”

Thor looked like he’d swallowed a pinecone. “This is my kinswoman you speak of. Is there naught to be done for her?”

“We’re not giving up yet. Strange and Tony are working on a way to measure how close she is to blowing. When we get a read on that we can do something about fixing her.” Bruce went to the fridge and pulled out a takeout container and a fork.

“Does Strange have any idea what kind of magic this is?” Phil asked.

“The... magical kind?” Bruce suggested through a full mouth.

“As in, who might be responsible for creating the device; who wanted to do this.”

“Oh. No. I don’t think so.”

Phil sighed. They were coming up dead ends. Beyond knowing that someone wanted Midgard and Asgard separated for good, it was hard to tell where the Friends of Humanity, Asgardian politics, and whoever crafted that device intersected. If the forces looking to put Sif and Freyr on the throne were involved, Phil couldn’t fathom how they were planning on cashing in on effectively isolating Asgard from the rest of the nine realms and killing one of their figureheads. If it was simply the Friends of Humanity tapping into mystical elements to further their cause, this seemed drastic even for them. This was in the realm of insane James Bond villains attempting to ransom the world, and that was far beyond the xenophobes’ usual scope.

“I must return to Asgard. My father must be informed of your findings in person, and perhaps the sorcerers of the court will have suggestions for Sif’s healing.”

Thor moved towards the elevator but was stopped by Steve’s hand on his arm. “Keep us in the loop. If we don’t have all the intel, nobody can make the right decision.”

Thor nodded sadly and left.


	20. Chapter 20

Thor was gone mere hours. Doctor Strange, Banner, Stark and Sif were ensconced in one of the labs in tests which only broke when Sif stormed out in search of food. In typical Asgardian fashion, she stormed out with little regard for her clothes, wearing only a clout cloth of some sort. Her dark hair was wild and alive. Her skin writhed with markings that radiated from over her heart. Strange followed her out, his cloak and jacket discarded. Without them he looked like a dignified older gentleman with a bit of eccentric sartorial choices, wings of silvered streaks highlighting his dark hair and strong features.

“Lady, our tests are not complete.”

“I will have a break and a meal or I will tear your flesh with my teeth and make a meal of _that_ ,” she told him.

Strange’s gaze flickered from Sif to Phil and back again. “If sustenance is what you require we may call a break. I wish you to know we seek only to restore your health.”

Sif faced away from Strange and bared her teeth in a snarl, a growl rumbling through her chest. She huffed out the end of her breath, her head dropping. “I fear I speak harshly from hunger and the strain. I know you seek knowledge to my own good, but it has grown wearing this last hour. I beg a respite to refresh myself, and be reminded that the days march on though I have been in your windowless prisons of knowledge.”

“I think some fresh air would do us all some good,” Phil told them. “Perhaps some more appropriate clothing before we step out?” he suggested.

\--

The penthouse level was gorgeous on a clear, sunny day, and Phil and Sif took advantage of it. Sif ate with grim determination, as though sustenance was a mission which she would complete, but which she didn’t anticipate enjoying in the least. Phil enjoyed the sunlight. Since taking a spear through the chest, he hadn’t been outside as much as he should have, and since falling asleep while searching for Barton he was craving some wide open space. The idea of walking the streets and being seen as Mrs. Robins had seen him—small, weak, in need of protection and supervision—was unappealing and unsettling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t just appear small and weak; it was a fact of his existence for the time being.

Sif sighed, finishing her meal with a ruthless efficiency and sprawling in the sunlight. “Do not mistake this for complaint, but this foul magic pains me.”

Phil glanced at her. She was rubbing the joint where her collarbone and her shoulder met, where Phil knew a particularly active bit of magical scrawl lay under her robe. “What kind of pain?” Phil enquired.

Sif examined him, and, finding no evidence of pity, answered. “As though I have trained too vigorously, or come to some moderate misfortune while riding. I feel... beaten.”

“If the magic is absorbing energy, it may well be absorbing the energy from your body.”

Sif made a sour face. “Indeed. As I feed myself I feed the craven disease I am cursed with.” She glowered out at the city. “I did not ask for any of this!” she burst out finally, as though voicing one side of an internal conversation. “I have never made aspirations towards the throne since my engagement with Thor was broken. Battle and honor; these are the things that make my blood sing.” She didn’t seem to need any input from Phil to continue on. “And yet I am bound as a pawn to some cowards’ foolish dreams, thinking I might be forced into marriage with a man I do not know. They are truly unwise if they think I will be forced into a union.”

“So why do they think you and Freyr will be a good match? And who are ‘they’?” Phil asked.

Sif bowed her head and shook it as though in regret. “There is a prophecy that at the union of the land and the sea there will be a spell of prosperity cast over all of the nine realms which will last for ten thousand years. This union will happen at a fraught, desperate time, and it will be a union won against all odds. There is a prophetic edda which speaks of the travails of the spirit of the sea in seeking his love; how many champions will win out for the love the sea will lavish upon the earth.” The last was spoken as though bitter tasting.

“You don’t seem to believe them.”

“Oh, the eddas will come to pass, but they do not speak of me no matter what the people think. Freyr may be the sea for he has always had a special place amongst the fisher folk, and he has plied our oceans as one of our boldest explorers. But I am not this land they speak of no matter how I love the farmers and the tilled lands. I may be seen as their champion but I am not the one of this prophecy.”

“That all seems very esoteric.”

“Such is the way of the telling of the future.” Sif shrugged philosophically. “I do not love Freyr and I will not be forced to his hand. I do not want the throne. If ever the villain responsible for my state is within a spear’s throw of me, be assured he will not live to leave my range. I will pin him like the bug he is and pull his spleen out for all to see its cowardish color.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. Working with SHIELD agents and contractors over the years, he’d become accustomed to people swearing on the strangest of revenge plots. This was gruesome but by no means beyond the pale.

“They chose you for some reason beyond your affinity with farming,” Phil asked more than stated.

Sif rolled her eyes expressively. “They think me a knave at court; that once I am seated I will be easily controlled as a puppet.” Her expression turned vicious and sharp. “They would not find me a naive country girl as some seem to think.”

Sif was beautiful, even in her fury and her illness. The line of her jaw and neck was elegant and proud. Her hands were strong and well formed, covered in nicks and scars from sparring and combat. They were the hands of a fighter, but she held herself with an unexpected grace. She was a caged tiger. She was stunning and terrifying, and under all of it, terrified. Had he not worked with Natasha for years, Phil wouldn’t have been able to detect the emotion buried beneath her rage and bravado. “I somehow can’t imagine someone thinking of you as an innocent country bumpkin.”

Sif frowned at the word “bumpkin”, but shook her head. “I have learned much in the centuries I have spent at court. I have changed much. I am ashamed to say it, but the Sif of old may well have fallen into their cunning plot and played the fool as they played her puppet masters. Loki has—” She stopped herself and stared out over the buildings and rooftops. “I am not so easily drawn into games as I once might have been. I will not play the pawn. If the time comes where my death is assured by this curse, I will find a way to send myself to some other world that the destruction will strike aught but Midgard. Your people should not bear the brunt of a matter such as this; they are not to blame for our strifes.”

“I’m not entirely certain about that,” Phil told her.

They were both silent for a long while. “I should not have burdened you with all of this. I am sorry—you are suffering your own travails and I set my own upon your ears.”

“It’s no burden at all,” Phil assured Sif. “It’s nice to be treated as... To have things seem normal for a bit even if that normal is ‘everything is terrible, we’re all going to die’.”

“Though your body is enfeebled your mind is sound as ever. I know how it feels to be treated as less than you are because of how you appear.” Phil didn’t appreciate being called ‘enfeebled’ but he couldn’t argue with her assessment.

They were silent, observing the city and lost within their own thoughts. The hair on Phil’s arms rose, and the unsettled, sinking feeling he associated with the Bifrost settled in his middle. Sif perked like a pointer hound on a bird. They both rose to hurry to the landing pad.

Thor was there with a woman Sif knew by name. “Hildegarde,” Sif greeted her, moving to clasp forearms. Hildegard was as tall and broad as Thor, with heavy blond braids that swung in front of her and a thick fur cloak. The hilt of a massive broadsword stuck up above her back. Her expression was serious, but the easy swing of her limbs showed she was not uncomfortable in the strange surroundings.

“Sif. Would that better word had brought me for a visit of you and this realm.” Hildegarde’s voice was calm and sure. Sif seemed to melt into the tone of it.

“This is the Son of Coul who fought so fiercely to capture Loki,” Sif introduced Phil.

“Indeed?” Hildegarde raised a surprised eyebrow. “Oh, but he has been shrunk to this diminutive size by that which afflicts you.” She crouched in front of Phil and held out a hand. They clasped arms in a warriors’ greeting. Her forearm was the length of his entire arm, and her palm easily went around his bicep. “I have heard tales of your loyalty and bravery from this one,” she gestured with her head towards Thor, the statement imbued with a tolerant, wry humor. “You have done your people great good. I will do what I can to return you to your former state.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Phil replied. “I hope you can make some progress on fixing all of us.”

“Indeed.” Hildegard turned to Sif. “Take me to your sorcerers that we might converse. I am all theory and no substance and to progress, that must be changed.”

Sif and Hildegard left arm in arm. “They seem close,” Phil commented to Thor.

“Aye. They are shield sisters, and at one time were closer than sisters of the blood, for they shared chambers at court. When no man would spar with them they fought on the training grounds a full day and night with swords, spears, and axes. It was a glorious thing.” Thor smiled, obviously recalling the battle. “Hildegard is not the most gifted of sorcerers at court, but few would make the journey to help Sif and risk seeming to support a usurper.”

“It’s truly that bad?” Phil winced at his use of the word ‘truly’ in common parlance. The Asgardians were rubbing off on him.

“The tensions have reached a fevered pitch since the attack on my mother. The people are polarizing and proclaiming for Odin or Freyr. Holdings are being torn apart with enmity. The law keepers have been sent out to a man, and only the palace guards remain with my mother to assure her safety. The realm is in dire straits.”

“Hmm,” Phil replied, thinking _goddamned fucking shit_. If Asgard imploded it would make curing Barton and himself that much more difficult. It would mean a lot of other things; things so dire he didn’t want to make a list lest he be overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of how badly Earth might be fucked, what with Midgard’s recent entree into intergalactic politics and the near-world-ending disasters which that hit off. Odin wasn’t particularly a friend to humanity as it existed now, but his track record of generally not wanting humanity to be wiped from the face of the universe was honestly better than most of the other options. Freyr probably wouldn’t start a war with Earth, but the fact was, he was an unknown quantity.

Thor mirrored his mood. “Odin was made an offer.” Phil waited. “There is a cure for Sif which would allow her to return to Asgard while harming neither realm.” Such an offer was not without a catch, Phil knew. This was a bizarre combination of hostage situation, bomb threat, and extended political standoff. “If Odin cedes the realm to Freyr and Sif’s rule and recognizes them as the rightful king and queen, Sif will be saved.”

“It won’t come to that,” Phil assured him.

“Nay. My father would not agree to it. Nor, I think, would Freyr appreciate it were he to do so. Negotiating under circumstances such as this will only encourage them in the future. The realm can not stand such chaos. To be ruled by fear and the puppet governors that are these craven worms would mean the end of the Kingdom. They would break ties with all realms and steer us to a course of isolationism which would do naught but harm us in the long term. Asgard has opened her doors to the universe. Other realms are doing likewise. It is only a short time before the Realm Eternal is but one of many kingdoms which must learn to live in harmony.”

“That’s very forward-thinking of your father.”

Thor frowned. “He thinks only of grinding their power under his heel. My mother’s injury has narrowed his sight to little but her safety and the security of the realm. It is untenable for much longer, which is how I convinced Hildegarde to accompany me and see if she might crack this foul magic.”

“Well, I certainly hope she can do something for all our circumstances.”


	21. Chapter 21

Phil had gone to find Barton but thought better of it when JARVIS showed him the spot in which his asset had secreted himself. He instead went to read reports and take notes. His seat was all wrong, though, and the reports were unwieldy, and he found it difficult to take notes with a pen that was no longer the right size. He gave up and rode the elevator to the common room.

Barton had made his way out of the duct work, and Thor and Barton had made their peace. Thor ran his hand through Barton’s belly fur and along his flank in rhythmic strokes. Phil felt a stab of jealousy at his asset being so bonelessly trusting with someone else.

“I too enjoy this activity when applied to my person. The lady Jane calls it ‘massage’ and enjoys its application most vociferously.” Barton twitched an ear. “Her moans of pleasure are nearly coital,” Thor clarified proudly. “I confess that Midgardians have been unable to serve me in this matter, lacking the fortitude of strength of my Asgardian shield brethren.” Barton made a chirruping sort of yowl and yawned. “Aye, Anthony may be capable but I fear he would see it as a misuse of his creation.” Barton chirped again and Thor’s eyes widened. “Indeed? I did not know machines could be satisfying in that manner.”

“Barton?” Phil drew attention to himself. Thor and Barton’s heads swiveled to look at him. “You need to eat something.”

Barton flopped back dramatically with a derisive squeak.

“You need to eat to keep your strength up,” Phil chided. “I don’t care if you don’t want to.” Barton made a challenging sound. “Macaroni and cheese isn’t on the menu,” Phil added.

“Did I not know better I would swear you were blessed with the Allspeak. Your familiarity with the Hawk is unparallelled.” Barton rolled to a crouch, hiding his belly and reflecting Phil’s own discomfort with Thor’s statement.

“Food,” Phil insisted, a bit harsher than he intended. Barton jumped to attention, Thor’s hand falling away. He jumped off the couch and padded to stand at Phil’s side; the proportions were all wrong but the spacing was so familiar from their time before Loki. Barton followed him to the kitchen a half step behind, a silent shadow on paw pads.

Barton leapt up on a barstool and then the counter. Phil snagged a barstool and set it in front of the fridge. He opened the fridge door and clambered on top of the stool to get a full view of the contents. JARVIS had ordered a selection of sushi-grade fish on Phil’s request. Barton happily ate large quantities of sashimi while human, so he could hardly begrudge enticing raw fish in his feline form.

Phil pulled out the first paper-wrapped bundle and tossed it on the counter, hopping down from the stool. Barton sniffed at it with interest, and meowed plaintively. “Let me get a plate,” Phil groused, moving his stool to stand in front of the cupboard with dishes. Barton gave him a mischievous look and began chewing on the paper. He got his paws around the end of the bundle and rolled over on his back, more playing with the wrapped fish than actually trying to get into it.

Phil put two plates down and tore open the fish. Plump, glistening slices of salmon were tucked into a thin paper wrapping. Stripes of fat on bright orange flesh made a picture that couldn’t have been more enticing if it had been styled by a photographer. Phil tossed half the slices on the plate for Barton and half for himself. Barton gave a yawlp of pleasure and began purring, stopping only when Phil moved to take a bite of his fish.

Barton’s glare stopped him with the piece half-way to his mouth. “What?”

Barton’s ears went back. “You don’t honestly—the recommendations regarding raw foods are for children under four, pregnant women, and the elderly.”

Barton made a sad little whine that was somehow warning as well. “And mercury shouldn’t be a concern as I don’t do this particularly often.”

Barton gave him a look that said, “well, if you’re sure” quite clearly, and buried his nose in his fish. The fact that he could eat as much fish as Phil, and was roughly one tenth his usual size, was impressive and spoke to the fact that he had not been eating properly. Barton devoured his portion, sharp teeth scissoring through tender, fatty salmon. “Don’t eat too fast—you don’t want to make yourself sick.”

Barton finished before Phil, and splayed himself along the counter, stomach visibly distended from his meal. It could almost be celebratory diner food after a mission; Phil decompressing over fries and Barton splayed over the back of his booth seat, languid and over-full. These quiet moments had been what was missing post-resurrection; the time between conversation and action which knit them together and was a reassuring comfort to Phil. Looking at Barton, he realized that perhaps these moments were similarly crucial to his asset. Perhaps what he’d thought of as a rather self-centered ritual had been one cherished by both of them.

Barton rolled so he was mostly on his back, legs dangling in a posture of relaxation, tail twitching lazily.


	22. Chapter 22

Several days later, Stark strode into Phil’s office without knocking. “I got you something.” Phil eyed Stark suspiciously. “Natasha suggested it.” He put a case the size of a lunchbox in front of Phil. Phil flipped the catches and opened it carefully. Two small guns were nestled together in the case. The safeties were on. Almost reverently, he curled his fingers around the grips, checked the chamber and the tiny magazine, and sighted down one.

Phil raised his eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t make weapons anymore,” he commented mildly.

Stark ignored him. “I formed the stocks out of a vibranium alloy to cut down on recoil. Natasha said otherwise it could damage your growth plates.” Phil checked the second gun and found a child-sized shoulder holster beneath them. “She didn’t want you to feel vulnerable,” he added transparently. “Want to try them out?”

Phil smiled.

The shooting range in the Tower was directly below R&D and heavily soundproofed. It had none of the usual safety precautions Phil was used to and there were no stalls.

“JARVIS; give us something to shoot at.” Bright holograms popped up at ten, twenty, and thirty meters; some straight targets, some people-shaped shadow targets and some human figures, realistic aside from their glow. “Boxes of ammunition are over there,” Tony nodded towards a cupboard, already distracted fiddling with a repulsor and a wrist piece from the Iron Man suit. Phil pulled the magazine out of each weapon and found an appropriate box of ammunition. As he loaded the magazine he kept half an ear on Stark, who maintained a constant banter of off-color jokes and spec analysis with JARVIS.

As much as Phil thought of himself as a glorified babysitter, he knew his role was equal parts life coach and implicit threat on assignments like Stark. He rarely had seen the other man in a relaxed situation, and this Stark with easy, loose muscles, casual focus, and light banter was an adjustment.

“Are the targets adequate, Agent?” JARVIS’ voice startled him, though he only let it show through a quick tensing of his muscles and flick of his eyes, checking his peripherals. Without his notice, his fingers had stilled on the final bullet in the first magazine while he was observing Stark.

“Yes, quite adequate,” he replied.

“Protective equipment is along the south wall,” JARVIS informed him, flicking on running lights behind noise-protectors and eyeglasses. Phil’s fingers were nimble in loading the second magazine. There was a pair of child-sized shooting glasses which Phil suspected Stark had procured specifically for him.

Stark’s banter had quieted as he moved to a workbench to fiddle with something in the repulsor. Phil tried to settle into his body.

He didn’t like to think of himself as averse to change, but he was used to the way things had been. Phil had lived in a body influenced only by the steady march of aging and the occasional serious injury. He found the way he related to the world to have been suddenly and undeniably altered. Phil flipped off the safety and lined up a shot, firing.

Phil missed the aurora of hazy vision out of his right eye, the memento of a flash-bang detonated at too short a range. Phil missed the way his hearing in the left side had a thirty MHz range that he couldn’t perceive. He missed the ache of the bridge of his foot when the pressure changed and he missed the long scar down the inside of his knee. He missed the tattoo over his heart and the march of cigarette burns along his thigh. He missed his crow’s feet. Phil knew a part of it was completely unhealthy but he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he got the pins holding his ribs together back, along with their never-ending ache, things would be okay. He rubbed the shoulder that didn’t hurt but felt as though it should.

His aim was off, but not by more than was to be expected from being shrunk several feet. The kickback was less than he’d been braced for but still felt good. He shot close to a hundred rounds before an exhaustion tremor forced him to stop.

“Would you like your accuracy data?” JARVIS asked politely.

“Please.” He wasn’t anywhere near his own standards before Loki, or before the chaos bomb, but if he ignored the first twenty shots or so he would have passed a SHIELD certification.

“Like them?” Stark asked around a probe he was holding in his mouth.

“Yes,” Phil admitted. Phil didn’t like to rely on weapons to feel safe; he prided himself in his body and his environment being the only weapons he truly needed. He was small, now, in a way he couldn’t remember feeling. Ever. He’d never been the largest kid in his classes but neither had he been the smallest. Phil had always been the solid middle of the pack through school; precocious, adept at sports but never a stand-out star. He’d excelled on the debate team through high school and led the Latin Club with the ruthless efficiency that characterized a great autocrat.

As was the habit of small towns’ kids, he played every sport with the seasons but excelled at none largely because his focus was elsewhere.

In short, Phil was unfamiliar with being in a situation in which he could be so easily victimized, and in which he was so aware of that fact. The tiny handguns didn’t have much stopping power and they honestly looked like toys, but if it came to a life-or-death situation, they would end a man just as effectively as any other weapon Phil had handled. He wouldn’t make that decision lightly, but it was a comfort to know it was available. He had never particularly worried about his personal safety outside of work situations, but now he found himself in the uncomfortable position of thinking about it nearly constantly. He had been out of place amongst super-people and well-armored geniuses but now he stuck out even more. Having some protection was welcome.

He cleaned the guns with efficient movements, reloaded the magazines, and stowed them in his shoulder holster. Stark had watched him with an odd mixture of expressions on his face. “Thank you,” Phil said finally.

Stark gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s what I do.”


	23. Chapter 23

“I must speak with you ere I visit the Fury,” Thor told Hildegarde and Strange when he burst into the lab. Phil was on a table, lying down and being magicked over, and sat up instantly at the statement. Hildegarde, Strange, and Banner had been working on figuring out the nature of his and Barton’s transfiguration over the past several weeks but seemed no closer to a solution.

“I’m going with you.”

Thor looked for a long moment at Phil, but turned to Hildegarde with an imploring manner. “Bide,” she told him, a broad hand on what had been his injured shoulder. He shuddered and sat still while they conversed in low tones.

Thor moved to leave. “I will commandeer a car and sit on phone books if I have to, to get to that meeting,” Phil warned, jumping off the bench and jogging to catch up with Thor.

Thor stopped and knelt before Phil. “Son of Coul, your mind is burdened with enough. Let Nicholas and I work through this matter and do not concern yourself with this.”

“This concerns me and I have a right and a need to be involved,” Phil replied flatly.

“Phillip may keep the politicking between you two to a minimum,” Strange suggested. Phil hadn’t had many dealings with the mystic before his transfiguration, but he was beginning to like him.

Phil needed to be there. Phil needed to stay informed and he needed to feel like he wasn’t _actually_ a child, no matter how he appeared. He looked up, and up, and up at Thor with an imploring expression. “Please.” The word nearly stuck in his throat, but he got it out without his voice cracking.

Thor considered Phil, then Strange, his resolve visibly crumbling. “Very well. I warn you though; I must travel with haste.”

Phil was familiar with flying in a variety of craft. Flying with Thor was a different beast entirely. The closest thing he could equate it to was hanging under the belly of a helicopter from a rope while in mid-flight during water rescue exercises with the Rangers. He felt a bit self-conscious when Thor matter-of-factly tucked Phil against his hip like a sack of groceries, but he quickly found himself holding tightly to the Asgardian, both for the feeling of safety as they rocketed through New York’s sky, and for the warmth the alien exuded.

Thor alighted on the helicarrier more lightly than normal in deference to Phil. Phil jogged to keep up with Thor’s long, quick strides. The deck crew shot them suspicious, confused glances but said nothing. SHIELD was used to weird—this was just more of the usual.

Fury met Thor on the command deck, sparing a frown for Phil. “My office,” was all he said, tilting his head towards the windowed space. The door closed behind them, sealing the office. “You should be at the Tower resting,” Fury said to Phil before Thor could begin speaking.

“With all due respect, I need to know what’s going on regarding this matter. Barton isn’t in a state to— One of us should be here.”

Fury gave him a long, stern look, but turned to Thor without another word. “What’s the news with your sorcerer?”

“Hildegarde is relatively certain Hogun will be cured, though she can do nothing for Clinton or Phillip. She has studied the magics wending their way through Sif’s blood but knows no cure. She has been working with Stark and Banner, though, and there may be a cure through the blending of magic and science.”

“That sounds ominous,” Fury commented dryly.

“Aye. They are not certain their idea will work, but it is more than we have had in the previous days. Perhaps there is hope for a cure before the situation is truly dire.”

“I’d call this pretty dire,” Fury stated.

“It is serious, but the danger is known. At least a little.”

“If Stark and Banner can’t get something up and running to cure Sif, we’re going to have to look at alternatives.”

Thor glowered. “You speak of forced expulsion to some other realm.”

“Sif herself requested that we find a way to dispose of her if we were unable to disarm her,” Phil put in.

Thor looked stricken. “She said this?” Phil nodded in confirmation. “She— she is truly a person of honor.”

“Do we know where else we could send her if she’s going to go super-nova?” Fury asked.

“I know not. The paths of the world tree are many and branching. Hildegarde may know, or my Lady Jane.”

“Keep me updated. We also need to see about how to get her there, wherever there ends up being. Can the Aesir help with that in any way?”

“Can? Aye, perhaps. Will? I think, no. The Aesir are bound up in keeping order in the growing chaos and few would dare challenge my father by consorting with Sif. Those who would, I fear are collaborators in the plot. If there is a solution to be found, Anthony and Doctor Banner will find it with the help of the mystics.”

Fury nodded. “Thank you for the update. I’ve left a briefing packet with Hill for you. Can you give us a minute?” Thor clasped his hands in front of him and bowed formally, turned, and left.

“Sir?” Phil asked mildly.

“What the fuck, Phil?” Fury asked, in one sentence morphing from serious commander to concerned friend. “You should not be here. You should be at home resting.”

“With all due respect, I’ve been resting enough. If I continue to rest I’m going to go out of my mind.”

“Then do that. I’m not having a kid, even you, running around playing secret agent.”

“I’m not _playing_ anything,” Phil growled. It probably came out more cute than threatening. He thrust his jaw forward argumentatively.

“No, you’re right,” Fury replied, falsely agreeable. “You’re an agent of SHIELD and you are on medical leave. I’m certain you’re familiar with what that means.”

Phil and Fury stared at each other for nearly a minute, blank, challenging, and in Phil’s case, smolderingly angry. “I don’t want you on active duty. I don’t want you having to do anything, alright?”

“I have to do _something_ ,” Phil protested.

“Then take Lewis, keep up on the paperwork. I do not want to see you anywhere where you could get killed. Again.”

\--

Phil emailed Darcy that very afternoon and requested they set up a mutually agreeable work schedule given the ongoing nature of his incapacitation. The Tower inhabitants were becoming used to being dive bombed by a heavy ginger tom, and Phil was becoming used to always having an “adult” around, in case.

Phil still spent a good deal of time wandering the Tower and checking on the inhabitants. Hildegarde was in the sunken couches, Sif on the floor leaning against her legs. Hildegarde carded her fingers through Sif’s hair and began braiding it in an intricate pattern. Sif had her eyes closed, and in the silence of the room Phil could just discern Hildegard humming a tune he didn’t know. Sif joined in intermittently with a few sung words. It was a sad melody, and the hints of lyrics did nothing to change that impression. Phil made some noise to let them know he was there, but Hildegarde only glanced at him, nodded in acknowledgement, and returned to her task.

Phil hadn’t even realized how tense Sif was. The readiness in every fiber of her body was so ingrained, it was only in its absence that he could perceive it. She was spread against the other woman in an exhausted sprawl, legs splayed open and shoulders completely relaxed. Hildegarde tugged on a particular spiral of braid and Sif hissed at the small pain. Hildegarde kissed her scalp and continued.

He and Clint were facing lifetimes stuck in the wrong bodies. Sif, an immortal, was facing sudden, violent death. Not only was she facing death, she was looking down the possibility that she would destroy two realms with her. It was a cruel sentence in a variety of ways, especially coming from people who seemed intent upon putting Sif into power. They had miscalculated if they thought that, once in power, Sif wouldn’t hunt them down like criminals and dogs.

Hildegarde finished a braid and tucked it in to complete the coiffure, pinning it into place with a bone comb. Sif had fallen asleep against the other woman’s knees. “Master Strange and I have done what could be done for Hogun. His sleep is magical, but the hold it has over him is not as tight as it might be. We have set magics upon him to loose the bonds over the next several sevendays. His recovery will not be quick but it will occur.”

“Could something similar be done for Sif?” Phil asked.

Hildegarde shook her head sadly. “Nay. The magic upon Hogun is a binding. Sif has been infected with the foulness. It is a toxic mix of the magics of the nine realms. There is stuff from the Aesir, from the Jotun, and the Elves alike. The vessel it was contained in was crafted by the dwarves. The touch of it leaves a taint in my mouth which remains for hours.”

“All those races are working together to put Sif and Freyr on the throne?” Phil asked, suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

“I do not believe it. The Elves are known for their fickle nature. They enjoy sowing chaos as a game. The Dwarves can always be bought and their love of tinkering... They enjoy a challenge nearly as much as they enjoy the glint of gold. Some in the Aesir obviously wish this to come to pass, and within the Jotun, many would do aught to blast a hole in Asgard, regardless of the treaty. If this were war, it would be some enemy to be faced in the field under daylight. This is cowards and snakes.”

Phil contemplated that in silence. Hildegarde rubbed Sif’s neck absently, releasing knots of tension with strong fingers. “What can you tell me about what’s going on at court?”

Hildegarde shrugged, disgust clearly written upon her face. “I know not what to say of it,” she replied finally. “All are in aspects of fear, justified and otherwise. The crop failures lead to famines, and those breed disease amongst the outland holdings. It is dire and I can do little without an enemy to turn my sword against. So I came to ease Sif’s pain in what way I can, and perchance prevent the catastrophe that the half-wits that built that device wish to see coming to pass. Would that I could do more, but I am but a warrior and a poor statesman.”

“I appreciate you coming to do what you can.”

“I am sorry I could not do more for you and your companion. Transformations are beyond my experience, I fear, and the magic that warped both your forms is a potent concoction with which I dare not mix my own.”

“I understand. Thank you for making the attempt.” Phil felt a yawning pit of hopelessness open beneath him, and consciously stepped back from it. There were worse places to be than where he was right now. He only had to look at Barton to see that.

He didn’t know whether he was avoiding his pit of depression, or skirting along the edge of it like a tightrope walker, when he returned to his office. Everything was too large, poorly proportioned, or downright inaccessible to him. The ergonomic desk chair setup that he had worked so hard to perfect mocked him. The bookshelves were too tall, and the filing cabinets would no longer take his fingerprints (though they were the same, the size-discrepancy wasn’t allowed for in the security protocols) or voice identification. The keyboard was cumbersome and his mouse was too far from his chair.

Phil stacked a pile of reference books from the bottom of his bookshelf onto his desk chair so he could at least reach the keyboard. After a half-hour of attempting to use his computer and getting little more than a mangled report and sore fingers for the effort, he stopped and reassessed. “JARVIS, do you have any suggestions?”

“Regarding, Agent?”

“Alterations to my physical environment to enable increased efficiency in work output?”

“I do indeed have several suggestions.” JARVIS sounded almost gleeful at being asked for his input. JARVIS reconfigured his desktop tablet to be an appropriately downsized keyboard, altered the angle of the lighting slightly so it didn’t shine into his eyes, and reconfigured his security protocols so he could get into his files. The last was a little worrying given that the security protocols were supposed to be SHIELD-secured, but he was willing to forgive the intrusion until such time as he was back in his usual body. Which was a thought he never imagined he would have, even with his experience working with the extra-normal under SHIELD.

He worked peaceably for an hour, almost feeling normal, before Darcy joined him.

“Hey boss,” Darcy greeted, reaching out and ruffling his hair in a fond gesture. Fingers buried in his soft brown hair, she seemed to realize what she was doing and froze, eyes wide. Phil froze as well, caught between mortification and the uncomfortable realization that he didn’t mind the contact particularly. “Ohmygod I’m so sorry.” Darcy stepped back, hands raised as though he was going to shoot her. Given his reputation within SHIELD, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that she thought he would. “That was—”

“It’s fine,” Phil tried to assure her.

“You just look like my nephew like this and— Wait, ‘it’s fine’?”

“It was just an unconscious gesture,” he added.

“I am always doing this. I’m the person who when the airport lady says ‘have a good flight’ I say, ‘you too’. I told the takeout guy ‘bye, I love you’ once.”

Phil snorted a laugh. “What did he say?”

Darcy blushed. “He said ‘love you too’ and then ran off ‘cause I don’t think he meant to.”

“You came in like you needed something.”

“Yeah. Natasha said Clint was sulking in her room and wouldn’t leave. She wants you to get him out.”

“Any particular reason she thinks I’ll be able to get him out when she’s failed?”

Darcy shrugged. “You got him out of the air ducts the first time. Come on—the way Natasha talks you guys were like, best friends or brothers or something before you died. I haven’t seen you guys say more than two words to each other, and that was before he lost the ability to form sentences. What the hell is up with you guys?” Phil looked flatly at Darcy. "Don't give me the ‘I could kill you with my mind’ look, boss. It's not like, a secret, that something happened. It's just everyone doesn't give a fuck or they're too emotionally stunted to say anything."

"The truth?" Phil asked. Darcy nodded eagerly. "I don't really know what happened."

"You have an idea," Darcy countered.

Phil ran his thumb over his index finger in the slightest hint of a nervous tell. His index finger felt wrong. "I lied about being dead."

"Dude, you were dead. You died. You just like, got better."

"I should have found a way to contact him. I should have told them all. It was... It was a betrayal."

Darcy stared at him as though waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, she shook her head in disgust. "You two are a pair of dumbfucks, you know that?"

"No. I didn't. I'm afraid you'll have to explain that one," Phil replied with cold control.

"Clint wasn't pissed that you didn't tell him because you betrayed him. He was pissed because you didn't tell anybody because you thought they wouldn't want you if you were broken. He was pissed you thought that it would matter one bit if you could karate-chop your way through a herd of aliens or if you could never walk again."

"Well—"

"No, you shut it," Darcy said, finger pointed threateningly at him. "Clint thought the reason you didn't tell anybody was you didn't want to see him. He thought you didn’t trust _him_. He thought you blamed him. He was fucking _sure_ that it was his fault you apparently had no _clue_ that you were like, one of the most important people in his life. Jesus Christ, dude, if I wasn't sure that Clint had a complex before all this, I'd swear you'd given him one single-handedly with that stunt." Phil was about to come back with a ‘how do you know all this’ when he put several sweaty hours of sparring, target shooting, and weapons training a week together with Darcy’s sometimes alarming insight and got a psychoanalysis a la Lewis. Darcy's words settled heavily on him, like stones crushing his chest.

"That isn't—" He stopped, the unfamiliar feeling of tears clogging up his throat. It was just an undeveloped prefrontal cortex. He wasn't this emotional. It wasn't this terrible. He would be okay if he just held it together. Darcy was abruptly in front of him, kneeling so they were more on a level. Her arms went around his shoulders, feeling as large and soft and comforting as the sky, and hugged him. He didn't even try to resist, pressing himself into her shoulder, feeling the cork on the tumultuous bottle of his emotions pop free.

She squeezed him, and rubbed a hand up and down his back. He closed his eyes and let the contact stretch out, soaking in the safe feeling of being embraced. Finally she kissed the side of his head and pulled back. He blushed at the familiarity of it. His eyes stung though he didn’t recall shedding any tears. “Thank you Ms. Lewis.”

“Sure thing, bossman. Now go dig Clint out of Natasha’s place.”

She stood, and he caught her wrist. “Thank you,” he repeated.

\--

Natasha shot him a look when he entered her quarters, and left. “JARVIS?” Phil asked.

“I believe Mr. Barton is in the area between the walls of the bathroom and Ms. Romanoff’s closet.”

Phil inspected the area from one side and then the other, setting his ear against the wall to determine whether he could hear Barton moving around. He heard nothing. He opened Natasha’s closet. It was entirely filled with shoes, neatly stacked on shelves. He examined it for possible entry points and found none. There was a small water-closet attached to the bathroom. A rifle, a set of knives, and a pair of handguns were stashed around it, but, more importantly, behind the water heater was a hidey-hole punched through into the wall.

“Barton?” Phil asked the hole. There was no response. “Can you come out? Darcy was worried about you.” Phil settled on his haunches and tried to peer deeper into the hole. There was scuffling and the sound of plaster filtering down through the wall. Two reflective cat-eyes peered out at Phil.

“Mrrr,” Barton said, sounding defensive and unhappy.

“Would you please just come out? I’d come in but I’m too big.”

Barton stuck his head out of the hole, whiskers coated with plaster dust. He burred grumpily, and the rest of him poured out of the hole. He shook and stretched, and slunk towards Phil. His head and tail drooped, and his eyes were listless and depressed when he got close.

“Have you been drinking?” Phil asked. Barton pulled back, obviously confused. “Water,” Phil clarified. Barton looked guilty, eyes darting to the left and right before he raised his left paw slowly.

Phil made a disgusted noise and went to the kitchen. He dragged a chair to the sink and poured a fresh bowl of water. He put it on the counter and Barton slunk over to it, lapping half-heartedly. “Have you been eating?” Barton tapped his left paw for ‘no’ in an almost absent-minded gesture. “You have to eat. I don’t want to find you dead in a wall because you passed out and we couldn’t get you out and then you died of dehydration.”

Barton made a series of noises that somehow managed to sound condescending and sarcastic. “Ask for help getting food if you can’t get to it yourself,” Phil snapped. Barton’s head jerked up as though he had been struck, startled and bristling. He meowed plaintively. He tried meowing again. “I don’t understand,” Phil said, helpless. Barton deflated, head dropping towards the water bowl again. “What do you want to eat?” Phil looked in Natasha’s fridge. “There are meatballs, tacos, chicken curry—”

Barton interrupted him with a meow. “Curry?” Phil asked to confirm. Barton raised his right paw. “Hot or cold?” Barton stretched negligently. Phil shrugged, popped open the container, and dumped half of it in a bowl. The other half he picked at with a fork. Barton started in on his bowl by licking the congealed coconut milk sauce off his chicken. He licked his chops in satisfaction before starting in on the chicken. “You need to look after yourself. I can’t always be here to make sure you’re eating and taking care of your health.” Barton replied with a meowing grumble into his food. “Did you—did you just sass me in cat?” Phil asked. Barton made a warbling yawlp in reply. “Look, I’m just worried about you. The others are worried about you; they’re just giving you space.” Barton ignored him in favor of scissoring pieces of chicken off thigh bones and gulping them down.

Phil left him alone. Barton could take advice, but he could usually only take it in small doses and with a lot of room to rabbit. They ate in silence. Barton was getting the hang of his teeth and had gnawed the chicken down to its bone. “Can you promise me you’ll go see the others? They’re worried about you, and I think they will be more understanding of your situation than you realize.”

Barton meowed doubtfully, but he stared up at Phil for a long moment. He stepped across the counter, around the bowls, and butted his head into Phil’s shoulder. Deliberately, he placed his right paw over the spot where Phil had been stabbed through. “Okay?” Phil asked to be certain he was interpreting the movement correctly. Barton tapped his paw. _Okay_ he seemed to agree.


	24. Chapter 24

“We’re going out.” Phil raised an eyebrow at Darcy from on top of his reference-book throne. Since getting back to some semblance of some kind of work, they had fallen into an uneasy routine. She was his designated pretend guardian whenever he needed to be in public, a compromise which had only been reached after he had been held by well-meaning Tower security guards on a sortie out of the upper reaches of the building. “The only reason I wasn’t supposed to make you go for walks or something was the docs were worried it’d put too much strain on your lungs. You look good, now, so lets get some vitamin D going. Chop chop.”

“Ms. Lewis, I’d really prefer to just go through some reports. If I fall behind it’ll be impossible to catch up.”

“Fine. Bring them. You can like, read them in the park.”

Phil sighed. “Let me get dressed.”

They went to the park and sat out in the sun, reading reports for a while. It was almost winter and the crowds at the park were thinner than in the late-summer warmth. The mind-your-own-business nature of New Yorkers meant they went largely unnoticed. Darcy was good company, neither insisting he talk nor ignoring him when he did have something to discuss. They got through a lot of their requisite work. “I should maybe be getting back. I’m supposed to hang out with Jane tonight.”

Phil stretched. “Okay.”

“You are like, the most agreeable child ever.”

“I’m not a child, Ms. Lewis, appearances aside.”

“Whatever.” Darcy checked her phone. “Jane says we should get some grub before we head home. That cool?”

Phil nodded. “I know a place.”

Darcy followed her erstwhile boss a step behind. Somehow as a child he had a physical presence which his larger, older incarnation never assumed. Also, Darcy would arm-wrestle Thor over the fact that tiny Coulson in his tiny suit was possibly the cutest thing _on Earth_. “Where are we going?” Darcy asked when they passed the three block mark.

“You said you wanted to get dinner before heading home. Best Har Gao in town.” Coulson nodded to an awning with a phone number, Chinese characters, and little else. He was almost bouncing on the balls of his small feet, rolling through each step and pushing off energetically. The awning covered a take-out restaurant—barely more than an offset nook walled from the street with a window set high up in the wall with bars providing security. Behind the window was stationed an elderly Chinese man in a baseball cap and apron that spoke of years of short-order service. He glanced down at Coulson and up at Darcy with what could have been either interest or disgust.

Coulson didn’t bother looking at the sprawling and poorly spelled menu, simply rattling off an order in rapid Mandarin. The chef’s wrinkled wisps of eyebrows rose in surprise as his hand wrote down the order, seemingly on automatic. He glanced between adorable Coulson and confused Darcy, who shrugged. “Whatever he said—he’s paying.” The chef looked suspicious when he took the card from Coulson’s reaching hand and ran it. He grunted something at Coulson and disappeared in back.

Coulson inhaled and exhaled appreciatively, tension melting out of his small muscles.

“You come here a lot? Before?” Darcy asked casually. She sat down on a plastic yard chair in front of a dangerous-looking space heater.

“Sitwell and I had a regular order and an open tab with them. He’s been known to use their hot pot as a hazing ritual.”

“That hot?”

“It made Wolverine sweat.”

“Is that what you ordered?” Coulson’s bland, enigmatic smile was terrifying on his young face. “I probably ate from here twice a week most weeks,” Coulson reminisced.

“We’ll have you back to late-night Chinese in no time.”

“I wish I had your faith, Miss Lewis.”

The cook shouted out of his prison-like window, something that might have been a summons and could just as easily have been profanity. There was a brief scuffle over who was carrying what which ended when Darcy hissed, “Look, boss, I can’t shoot for shit yet and if something goes down you’re going to need to step up, so keep your chivalry in your tiny dress slacks and carry the dumplings. Those will survive a drop without scalding us if you need to get to your sidearms.”

Phil looked up at Darcy with a hint of respect. On the one hand, she was now burdened with almost an entire Avengers team’s worth of Chinese food, and not looking too pleased about it. On the other hand, she had enough foresight and clarity of vision to realize that Phil, even in his altered state, was better trained and mentally prepared to repulse an attack, and suggested a division of labor with that in mind.

They began walking back. “Hey bossman. We’ll get this shit worked out. It’s not going to always be like this; Strange and Hildegarde are gonna like, do something mystical magical with Jane and Tony and Bruce and get this stuff fixed.”

“And if they don’t?” he asked, feeling small inside himself.

“I bet puberty the second time is still a total bitch,” Darcy replied, nudging him with her hip.


	25. Chapter 25

When they returned, Barton was making good on his promise to attempt to socialize a bit, or at least not hide in the walls any longer. He was sitting in the center of the kitchen table, yowling at Stark.

“So you can understand that?” Stark asked, turning to Thor.

“Aye.”

“You speak... Cat,” Stark clarified.

“Aye.”

“Dude where have you been?” Darcy asked, unloading the bags on the nearest surface.

Stark frowned at Darcy and flicked his fingers dismissively. “Busy doing things beyond the scope of your small mind.” He turned back to Thor. “Can you teach me to speak Cat?” Stark asked. Phil didn’t point out that Stark was pretty terrible at languages that didn’t involve computers.

Thor frowned in thought. “I do not believe so. The Allspeak is impossible for those without magical gifts, and the language of the beasts is complex.”

“Could you teach JARVIS?” Stark asked, unperturbed. “He’s got some pretty advanced translation functions.”

“Perhaps.”

“If you teach JARVIS to speak Cat I will give you half the proceeds on all the crazy shit R&D makes that speaks Cat.” Barton yawlped in indignant protest. “Yeah, whatever—you’ll get some of it too,” Stark told Barton dismissively. Barton chirped, pacified. Phil smirked to himself. The team had come together even better than he had hoped, if Stark was so well-able to interpret Barton.

After that, Phil would walk in on JARVIS and Thor yowling back and forth with Barton’s meows of input. It became almost a joke. Bruce and Stark would yowl at JARVIS in their best cat impersonations to see what they were saying in Cat. Darcy got in on the action and was soon attempting to string cat-sentences together. Clint seemed smug about the whole thing. “Ms. Lewis—could you refrain from doing that while we’re working.”

“I could, but it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.” She held out her hand for Barton to high-five. He rolled his eyes but obliged. He chirruped and burred, stood and stretched from his nose to his tail, and trotted over to butt Darcy in the shoulder with his head. He’d grown attached to Phil’s assistant, or perhaps he had been attached before and Phil hadn’t known it because Clint was so good at avoiding him. She ran her fingers from the crown of his head down into the dense fur around his neck and scratched under his chin. The purr began as a barely-there rumble but quickly escalated to the sound of a tiny, poorly-tuned generator. 

Barton nudged forward until he was half-lying along Darcy’s shoulder and chest, paws kneading just under her collar bone. “Clint, are you trying to cop a feel?” Barton upturned his cat-face with a huge cat-grin on it, and pawed enthusiastically with his right forepaw. Darcy huffed out a laugh and pushed him off her shoulder. “Christ, Clint. They warned me you were a fucking horndog.” Barton fell, knocked off the table by the push. He managed to land on his feet and warbled a long commentary in response to Darcy. “Whatever, man. If you were, like, actually human, I would consider it but nope. Not making time with a cat. I will however, scratch you under your adorable chin.”

\--

“Jane?” Bruce’s voice asked from JARVIS’ speakers. Jane looked up from her leftovers, clearly broken out of a thoughtful fog.

“Huh?” she asked, squinting at the ceiling. Darcy shoved Jane’s glasses into her hands and pointed at the noodles.

“Are you doing any Bifrost experiments right now?” Bruce asked sounding nervous.

“She’s doing lunch,” Darcy replied for Jane. “Why?”

“All my sensors are going berzerk. Something’s happening towards Staten Island.”

Jane stiffened like a bird dog going on point. “Spontaneous Einstein-Rosen bridge formation?” she asked.

“That’s what it’s saying.”

“I’ll be right there. Get everyone—this might be big.” Jane dropped her chopsticks and sprinted for the elevator.

“Big’” aptly described what came through the Einstein-Rosen bridge that formed over Mariners Marsh Park on Staten Island. Luckily, “alive” was not an adjective that could be applied. 

“This is one ugly sushi candidate,” Stark said over the comms as he flew reconnaissance loops.

“It is one of the Beasts from Below,” Thor replied, landing with a whump.

“That sounds terrible,” Natasha muttered, picking her way through the mixture of flesh, scales and slime. The xenobiologists were _en route_ but she was doing a sweep to be sure there weren’t smaller living entities ready to eat the scientists. Thus far it had been mostly tentacles, chunks of flesh with a thick, scaled hide attached, and, eerily, one hugely round white eye. The mess had appeared a hundred meters in the air and fallen, lifeless, to the ground. It had reportedly killed two people in the park, and a host of others were in decontamination units that had been flown in from the airport.

“We are fortunate the bridge was unstable and only part of this creature was transported. When such creatures are found to inhabit mine shafts on Asgard they are sealed in perpetuity. These creatures are as ancient as the Aesir and have no regard for creatures smaller than themselves.” Thor leapt on top of a tentacle and began scaling the largest mass of flesh.

“Are they magical?” Darcy asked, nose close to the screen she was watching through in the Tower.

“As anything in Asgard is, but they would not initiate transit to your realm. They have neither the inclination nor the power.” Thor grunted, swung his hammer to execute an improbable leap, and grunted again. “I thought as much.”

“Thor?” Natasha asked.

“There is a note.” Thor groaned with effort. With a sickening, squelching, rending sound, he pulled a huge spear free, a tanned hide dangling from it like a cape. Thor read it while Natasha clambered up to his vantage point. “It is a warning to the people of Midgard that by keeping the Lady Sif under their protection they court their own death. The Beast was meant as a taste of the horrors to come if she is not returned to Asgard and her doom.”

“Well, it looks pretty horrible,” Natasha replied, surveying the damage. Barton meowed in agreement. Natasha snorted a chuckle. “Yeah, you should be glad you’re not on this one, Barton.” She scraped slime off her forearms and shook the Widows Bite clear. “So what the hell happened?”

Thor held the rolled animal skin out to her, and looked down the length of the spear. “This was thrust into the Beast’s most tender spot to drive it to a rage, no doubt to increase its destruction. Whoever did this must have underestimated the size of this creature: only half of it arrived through the bridge.”

Barton vocalized a string of yowling meows over the comm. Thor frowned thoughtfully while JARVIS attempted to translate. “Inquiry: bold female warrior’s value regarding enemy group in question. Inquiry: initiation of counterproductive behavior.”

Phil parsed that. “Why are they demanding action which would lead to Sif’s death if they want her to take up a leadership position?” Phil translated. Barton chirruped in agreement.

“Perhaps their coalition has broken; what once was a singular goal is now fractured,” Thor suggested.

“This is an escalation,” Natasha added. The xenobiologists were coming on site in a cluster. Natasha waved that the site was as non-dangerous as the potentially toxic corpse of half of an alien beast even the Aesir feared could be.

“Yeah, but not so well planned out,” Darcy replied. Natasha stared down into the blind white eye as though with the power of her gaze she could send the creature back from where it came. Darcy looked down at Phil. “Boss?”

“It may indicate fractures in their command structure,” he agreed. “It may just indicate desperation. Or they may have some way of shielding Sif if she’s returned, while still destroying the Bifrost. We’ll have the linguists give a look at that message.”

“I appreciate your input, Phil, but I don’t think I need to remind you you’re on leave indefinitely,” Fury’s voice brooked no argument over the comm. “I’m willing to overlook some spying, but this is Hill’s operation.”

Barton yowled something indignant which JARVIS didn’t bother trying to translate. Darcy looked as though she was about to put in her two cents, but Phil held up a finger for silence. “Understood sir.” Darcy bristled, puffing up with her effort not to jump into the conversation.

“I have cut the comms, sir,” JARVIS told them. “We are now receiving only.”

Darcy’s verbal dam burst and her indignation flowed freely. Barton made his opinion known, strutting up and down the kitchen countertop, and meowing and yawlping. It would have been adorable if Phil hadn’t been reeling from the reprimand and on an emotional roller-coaster already that hadn’t let up for weeks. He crossed his arms and put his head down on them, enclosing himself in the close, humid quiet occupied by his own breathing and darkness.

Moments later, Barton brushed by him. Phil raised his head to a worried-looking Darcy. “Are you two done?”

“Are you okay?” Darcy asked, ignoring his question.

“I’d just like some quiet,” Phil replied, “And I’d like to be allowed to fight my own battles, or not, as I choose.”

“I was just—” Phil held up his hand in a placating gesture. Darcy’s expression spoke an apology. Barton was crouched low, head tilted and resting on his forepaws. Phil let out a breath and dropped his hand on the counter, palm up. Barton oozed towards him and burred quietly. He rubbed his chin along the pads of Phil’s fingertips, and moved into the pressure when Phil scratched. “I’d appreciate it if you gave me the option to fight my own battles or not. I need you to respect that choice.” Phil spoke to Darcy, but gave Barton a pointed look. “All I have right now is my tactical experience. Let me use it however I think best.”

“Sorry boss.” This had been hard on her as well as him. She had been in training to become an analyst or even potentially an agent, but with his transformation she’d been relegated to equal parts babysitter and personal assistant. He was hardly providing her with an enriching environment or anything that could be called work experience. With his demotion until such time when his condition was remedied she was stuck with him as a dead weight.

Barton butted his head into Phil’s fingers and flopped to his side with a rumble.

\--

“Your communication cut short, but rest assured I informed the Fury of your suggested mode of action,” Thor told Phil when he rose from the Tower landing pad.

“The coms weren’t cut short—the Director asked that I refrain from acting in an advisory capacity,” Phil replied.

Thor looked confused for a moment, though the expression cleared. “The Fury does have doubts that your transformation may yet harm your faculties. I have assured him many times but he is a man to trust only his own convictions.” Thor set Mjolnir by his usual launch point and submitted to a thorough hosing-down by DUM-E.

“Do you think this resulted from a split in the original terrorist group?” Phil asked.

Thor frowned, screwing up his face as DUM-E aimed for his nose. He waved off the exuberant little robot and scraped water from his forearms, shaking like a dog. “This tone is different than previous missives. I believe it to be so. That they contact Midgard and bypass the court entirely is troubling as well. I must return immediately to speak with my father.”

Phil nodded.


	26. Chapter 26

Sif was growing weaker by the day. It had been weeks with little further progress on a cure for any of them, though Hogun had finally awoken from his coma. The constant pain wore her down emotionally and physically; as the magic crawled through her body, just under the skin, it sapped her of vitality. Hildegarde spent all her time when not working with Jane, Tony, or Bruce in Sif’s company in an attempt to keep her spirits up. At first they sparred, but as Sif grew too weak for that they spent more time simply sitting together, Hildegarde singing quietly.

Sif spent more time asleep than awake, and the time she was awake was painful and aggrieving. For a woman who defined herself with vitality and vigour, pain, inactivity, and helplessness were each their own defeats. When Hildegarde could not be there, Phil sat with Sif. He offered her the missive tablets to read in her native tongue, and they discussed the court. Phil felt a little bad, covertly pumping Sif for information on the personal bonds, history, and personalities of the Asgardians in court and positions of power, but he was ultimately using the information he got from her to her benefit.

“Phillip?” Sif asked, interrupting Phil’s attempts to write up a summary on everyone who would stand to gain from Sif and Freyr’s ascendence.

“Hmm?” Phil hummed, looking up.

“Is Thor on the planet currently?”

Phil checked the Bifrost transit schedule and saw that Thor had arrived earlier that day. “Yes. He’s in a meeting with Director Fury right now.”

She nodded. “Would you do me the favor to send a message to him that I wish to meet? In secrecy if he need screen himself from backlash from Odin.”

Phil frowned and typed out a quick message which was not overtly incriminating for Thor, requesting he come to the tower to meet with Sif. Sif smiled wanly. “I thank you.”

The scrawl of alien magic had climbed and spread from her breastbone to her neck and arm, across her stomach, and, Phil could only assume, lower. Jane had worked out a way to track her energetic state and give them considerable warning if she was going to detonate, but a solution was elusive. 

Later that day, Thor appeared outside Phil’s office. “You summoned me?” he asked, looking hesitant. Sif was reclining on Phil’s couch while he worked, and she struggled to sit upright.

“Aye,” she replied to Thor. “We must speak before I grow too weak even for that.”

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Phil hopped down from his book-throne, secured the necessary files, and left them alone. It was, of course, his office, so he watched the conversation via his private feeds.

Thor went to a knee before Sif almost as soon as Phil had left the room. He put his broad hands on her shoulders, and she put hers on his. She dropped her head forward in a weary movement, and he did the same. They touched foreheads in an intimate, silent conversation. “Would that I could do more,” Thor murmured.

“Nay,”

“Would that I could do _anything_. I am like a toothless babe before this foe. I would rend them with my _teeth_ were they to stand before me as men. As warriors,” he corrected at her sharp look.

“That is not why we need talk. I need a boon. You must promise me something.”

“Be it in my power you may have any part of me,” Thor promised. He seemed emotional upon seeing Sif’s weakness. He had kept himself apart from her and Hildegarde after bringing the other woman from Asgard.

“When you return home, you must speak with Heimdall.” She paused as though gathering her thoughts. “I know it be within his power to send me to some far-off planet bereft of life. I know it. He may fear bringing me into the ways of the Bifrost, but I will not have this fledgling realm destroyed for his cowardice.”

“Careful as you speak, for he will hear you even now,” Thor cautioned.

“Aye, and mayhap it will put a fire in his belly to do what must be done,” she retorted. “Speak for me and ask that final boon. If the moment draws near when my time must end, let him ease my way with the knowledge that I will not snuff out so much innocent life with my own sad fate.”

Sif’s eyes shone with tears. “I do not want my last act to be the ignoble destruction of this realm. Though I know I will not find a place in Valhalla...” She dropped her head forward once more so they touched temples.

Thor moved his hand from her shoulder to her hair, running his fingers through the messy tangle of it and pressing her close to him. “I will speak on your behalf and if he will not listen I will speak again and again until he sees your wisdom.”

Sif deflated, melting into Thor’s arms. “It eases my heart to have a friend such as you.” She spoke into his shoulder and it was nearly inaudible on the feeds.

“You have been the most worthy friend to me. It is only just.”

Sif nodded and drew back. “You will always have my support as king. You must know that I never knew of these plots and schemes before they were thrust upon me. Tell me you know that.”

“I do. I never spared a thought that you behaved otherwise.”

Sif nodded in apparent satisfaction. Thor kissed her cheek and drew her into another hug. “I must say my goodbyes, though. Odin has forbade me to speak with you. I flaunt his command even now that I might bid farewell.” Tears stood out in Thor’s eyes, and Phil cut the connection, giving them some privacy.

\--

Phil and Darcy had returned to their daily routine, as much as it felt ridiculous to both of them. Darcy would show up around ten with stacks of papers and documents, gleaned from Stark’s spying and the shreds of Phil’s security clearance, and write reports. Mostly they talked, argued, researched, and debated the merits of theories about the group of terrorist aliens, and what its future tactics might entail.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m glad that these numbnuts haven’t gotten ahold of 19th and 20th century guerrilla warfare handbooks and the al-Qaeda manuals— but damn, this is just not gonna roll.”

Thor had transcribed the message off the Beast from Below, and had recited another received by the court from memory. Phil looked archly at Darcy. “Oh my god don’t do that it’s too cute and it derails my thought process,” she told him. He snorted a chuckle. Somehow Darcy’s sincerity made comments like that tolerable.

“How is it ‘not gonna roll’?” Phil asked.

“Okay, there’s like, no provisions in here for how the exchange of power is going to go down. It’s basically, ‘Step away from the throne and nobody gets hurt,’ which may work in like, a cowboy movie from the 40’s but so totally will not fly for an inter _galactic_ government. Seriously, I know it’s been like, a pseudo-democratic monarchy, but like... it’s not that simple.”

“And what does that tell us about our terrorists?”

“Numbnuts?” Phil moved his index finger in a rolling motion implying, _move on_. “That they’re not very versed in statecraft. That they’ve probably never run anything larger than a Taco Bell? That it would be a serious fucking disaster if they took over for Odin, even if he is a dickwad?” Darcy rolled her eyes and sighed melodramatically. She turned her attention back to the transcript of the conversation and read it through once more. “Seriously, these guys don’t even seem to understand that Sif and Freyr are like, not gonna marry. You can’t just push two peoples’ faces together and get them to kiss and make a nation.”

“History would say otherwise,” Phil retorted. “There are more than a handful of state marriages that have worked out to be successful unions both politically and socially. I’m not saying this is one of those situations, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that this is how their union is seen by these groups.”

“All I’m saying is these dudes’ long-term stability is not looking good, if they come into power. Also like, the fact that we got two offers from two different groups within the same week? Not speaking so good for either of their credibilities.”

“True. Do both of them have a solution, or is it neither?” Phil asked.

“It doesn’t look like either of them could reliably deliver,” Darcy agreed.

“Suggested course of action?” Phil asked with a hint of a smirk.

Darcy returned the expression. “Observe and report. Giving these guys what they want isn’t gonna do us any good. I guess try to lure them out with further communication if we’re feeling feisty.”

“Define ‘feisty’,” Phil pressed.

“Is there like, an intern we can put on it? Keep up communications under a guise of appeasement and see where it leads?” Phil raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that—totally valid question.”

Phil shrugged. “We might have someone we could put on it. It does seem most likely that a solution will develop internally. Any updates on a treatment for Sif?” Darcy was a more reliable reporter on Jane’s research than Jane’s own research reports, which were often creatively organized and contained a lot of words that Phil was certain were not yet in the dictionary.

“There are like...” Darcy trailed off with an expression that was discomfort, anxiety, and not knowing quite how to describe something rolled into one contorted face. “I think they maybe have something. Bruce was putting in for permission to hook the Tower into the city’s power grid.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Totes.”

“Any idea what they’re up to beyond ‘ominous’?” Phil asked.

Darcy rolled her eyes around the room, physically hedging. “Tony said something about ‘draining her like a boil’, which sounded... ugh.”


	27. Chapter 27

What it turned out that they had in mind for Sif was indeed draining her like a boil.

“Once we can get the stored energy down to reasonable levels we should be able to detonate her in the Hulk chamber,” Jane told him distractedly. She hadn’t given any indication that she had noticed he was in the body of his ten-year-old self, and had continued scribbling on a tablet through their conversation. Indeed, though they had interacted many times since his transformation, Doctor Foster never gave any indication that she noticed he was in any way altered. “Bruce and Hilde are putting something together. I helped them get a set of step-down transformers set up already.” She waved the stylus for the tablet in a shooing gesture.

“How long?” he asked.

“Couple of days, max? Maybe this afternoon?” Jane suggested vaguely.

When he checked in with Bruce and Hildegarde, they had something that looked like a medieval taser which they were testing on souped-up wall sockets. “What’s the news?” Phil asked.

“We are near the end of putting this device through its paces,” Hildegarde replied, holding the thing like a particularly vicious set of brass knuckles. “Your scientists have proven informative, and more open-minded than one would expect of such a short-lived race.”

Bruce shrugged and gave him a look that said these sorts of comments had been routine the last week. “We can do this whenever everyone’s ready.”

Before they could move to gather the appropriate individuals, the lights flashed, red, red, white; the signal to assemble. Phil ran to the elevator, Barton close on his heels, yowling out a question.

“A disturbance at the 9/11 Memorial,” JARVIS answered Barton.

They rode the elevator to the penthouse floor. Stark was putting on the Iron Man suit while Steve was pulling on his boots, his cowl askew. Stark looked at Phil and Barton with barely-concealed pity. “I think you guys are sitting this one out.” Barton meowed long and angrily. “Whatever, Puss In Boots; Cap and I got this one. JARVIS can keep you in the loop.”

Stark’s faceplate shut with a clunk, and he held his arms open for Steve to execute a hug-and-fly. They took off in a spiral. “JARVIS?” Phil asked.

“There was a report of a small flying craft landing in between the north and south pools near the museum construction, though surveillance does not show evidence of a craft now. There is a male meta-human—most likely Asgardian—there now. Black Widow is en route from SHIELD.” JARVIS pulled up a map with dots noting the progress of Natasha, Stark, and Steve.

Natasha was zooming down streets, so she was most likely on a motorcycle. Stark and Cap were coming in fast, probably scaring the shit out of the people monitoring radar over the city. Speaking of: “Did the craft get picked up by radar? Did it come in through the atmosphere, or through a dimensional rift?”

“Checking.” JARVIS was silent for a long moment. “There was evidence suggesting an inbound asteroid, roughly twelve meters wide, but it was on a trajectory such that it was projected to burn up in the atmosphere. During atmospheric entry it exhibited propulsion capabilities. Tracking was lost over the Atlantic.”

Barton voiced a question. “No, it didn’t show up on any air-traffic control readings,” JARVIS replied.

“Enable the live feed, J,” Stark’s voice said, just as a video feed from his helmet cam came up. Steve’s head blocked half of the visual field for a moment, but they were in the plaza of the 9/11 Memorial. A huge, broad, blond man was striding around the plaza with an affable, agreeable air. He had a sword at his hip, and a flowing fur cloak. Steve was trying to make contact.

“Excuse me, sir.” The man turned and faced Steve. “Yes, excuse me. Can you please state your business?”

The man began to approach, but Stark raised his repulsors. “Stay right there, hotcakes. We’re not a big hugging strangers race.”

The man harrumphed. “I am Freyr, former Lord of Alfheimr, keeper of Laevateinn, and explorer of the Nine Realms. I come to speak with Prince Thor, my nephew, and the Lady Sif.”

“Is that ‘speak’ like, come to try and smash someone’s head in, or like, have a chat over scones?” Stark asked, repulsors steady.

“I come peaceably. Tell me what I must do to prove the truth of it, if you mistrust my motives.” Freyr looked hurt that anybody would mistrust his motives. He had the same congenial quality as Thor that made you want to like him in spite of what your better judgement might say. His face was broad and his nose was crooked. His eyebrow had been split open by a blow or a cut at some point and didn’t line up properly. Freyr looked like a man who had worked hard and traveled the worlds, and come back with a joy and appreciation for all of the varied denizens of the universe. Phil was aware of exactly how much trouble that man had stirred up, and even so he found himself wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Stark and Steve exchanged a look. Natasha tore onto the scene on a SHIELD motorcycle, skidding to a halt near a bench. She had her Widow’s Bite on, which could release enough energy to take down most Asgardians. There was a long moment of silence as everyone sized everyone else up. “Can you ask them to bring him to the Tower?” Phil asked.

“Agent, I’m surprised at you,” Stark said over the com. “Trying to get your little hooks in this guy before Fury? Sneaky sneaky.”

“Mr. Freyr? We should be able to get you in contact with Thor and Sif. If you’ll come with me?” Steve escorted Freyr to the SHIELD bike, bumping Natasha off so he could drive. Natasha looked disgruntled, but she wouldn’t be looking forward to riding with a massive meta-human clinging to her back, and the only other option for getting Freyr back to the Tower without SHIELD support was getting Tony to fly. It was a compromise.

Phil, Barton, and Darcy were waiting in the parking level when Steve rumbled in. Freyr sat tall and straight as though he was well used to riding on various beasts and contraptions while maintaining an air of dignity. Darcy had been dragged out of the shower and her hair was still slick and wet, but both Phil and Darcy were in their most professional clothes. Steve nudged the kickstand into place and swung his leg over the bike. Freyr followed suit and strode confidently towards Phil and Darcy. He eyed both of them with a hint of confusion and finally swept a bow to Darcy. “My lady,” he greeted her.

“Just Lewis,” she replied with a cheeky grin. “That’s the boss.” She pointed her thumb down at Phil.

Freyr looked confused but swept an equally gracious but slightly different bow to Phil. “Young Sir.”

“Not so young,” Steve corrected, nodding to Phil. “He was caught in the blast that disabled Hogun and turned Sif into a walking landmine. Hawkeye too,” Steve nodded towards Barton.

“Aah.” Freyr looked relieved. “So it is not customary to have children direct matters in your realm,” Freyr concluded.

“No,” Phil answered. “I requested you be brought here so that we could discuss possible solutions to the current issues.”

“Verily, solutions should be discussed. I come most urgently to talk with the Lady Sif and my Prince, though, and I am afraid your concerns must wait, as I believe I may smooth my relations with Asgard and win a prize worth the mightiest of sacrifice in one fell swoop.”

Darcy raised her eyebrows. “I dunno about you, boss, but this I want to hear about.” Barton mrred an agreement.

“Why don’t we take this to a conference room? Captain Rogers would be happy to escort you to one while Ms. Lewis and I fetch the relevant parties.” Steve glanced at him, obviously telegraphing that he knew Phil and Darcy didn’t need to go in person to find Thor and Sif, but he remained silent, gesturing for Freyr to precede him into the elevator.

Phil turned to Darcy when the door had closed. “Can you please inform Sif of what’s going on and see if she would like to speak with our visitor?”

Phil found Thor, with JARVIS’ help, speaking with Hildegarde in the prototype levels. “My communicator informed me to go about my customary business, so I did not heed the call to assemble. Though a battle would like as not have eased my soul, I have much business and I must return to Asgard in haste.”

“That’s what I’m here about, actually. Your uncle is here to talk with you.” Thor’s expression went from confused to determined. Barton meowed an editorial which made Thor’s expression soften into a sly smile. Barton cleaned a paw negligently, not about to give up his secrets.

“Take me to him,” Thor commanded.

The moment Thor walked in the room, Phil could tell all other people present paled to insignificance. Freyr knelt, sword arm on knee, forehead on forearm, in a warrior’s show of supplication. “My Prince,” he greeted before Thor could speak. Thor looked embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“Rise, uncle.”

“I must hear it from your lips that you think me not responsible for these foul plots, for it would rend my heart in two to know your regard for family had fallen so low.”

“I think it not,” Thor assured him. “Rise. I am my father’s child, but not my father.”

Freyr rose, and there was the hint of tears creeping around the edges of his eyes. “It does me much good to hear such. Come.” Freyr opened his arms and the two men embraced heartily, with much pounding of backs. “Oh, my nibling it does me good to see you in such strong form. Tales of your prowess have spread through the nine realms, I do swear it, and to hear you so lauded swells my soul to frightful proportions.”

Thor shuffled, pleased but discomforted in a way Phil had never observed. Barton trilled and nudged his leg. Phil looked down into the privately amused face of his asset and exchanged child-smirk and cat-smirk. Thor behaved almost like a schoolboy, eager to please but shy of hearing nice things about himself.

“You know the manner of tales; exaggerating deeds to heights unrecognizable from the vantage of the original feat. But come and let us speak. We have much that must be resolved, and I must return to Asgard to sway my father’s will to a milder course that will appease all. Please. Tell me your story.”

“It is a woman,” Freyr stated with a sigh. “My heart has been pierced by the sweetest barb possible. This last year I have fallen into the deepest pool of love and I will settle for nothing less than wedding her and forever binding our lives together.”

“Tell me of her. Surely she is a woman of the greatest discretion for I have heard nothing amongst the ladies of the Aesir or the Vanir.”

Freyr’s expression changed minutely but in a manner which set alarm bells going in Phil’s head. “She is a princess of the Jotun,” he stated quietly.

That caused only dumbstruck silence from those assembled, until Barton broke it with a sarcastic comment. Freyr spared his asset a dark look. “She is the finest creature ever crafted in that realm or any other,” Freyr replied.

“Truly? A woman such as this has won your heart?”

“You find it so hard to believe? Your own brother was one of her kind and you knew it not. She is the woman I wish to stand with, but Odin has refused to recognize our court, let alone any marriage. I have tried to speak with him and turn him to the wisdom and generosity of such a blessing, but I have had less than no luck.”

“But such a marriage is all my father could ask to turn back those demanding you sit the throne. How could he deny it?”

“I know not, but I come to beg your help to convince him to bless the marriage. I yearn for fair Gerd like a sailor thrown from his deck yearns for the scuff of land under foot. I know you have before set your shoulder against the will of the Allfather; will you aid me in this?”

\--

“You ready?” Bruce asked through the mic. It was rare for him to be on the other side of the thick glass of the Hulk chamber.

“I am,” Sif replied weakly. She was on a gurney for ease of transport.

“Hildegarde?” Bruce asked.

“Aye. I stand prepared.” She wielded the energy siphon like a knife. Phil watched from behind Bruce and Tony, standing on a tabletop next to Darcy. Sif didn’t seem disturbed by the lack of privacy for whatever no-doubt terrible thing her friends were going to do to her. She wore her hospital gown like it was a warrior’s proper attire.

“This will not harm her?” Freyr asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

Phil shrugged. “We can’t know. If we do nothing she’ll die and take us with her. This is the only option.”

“I like it not.”

“Yeah, well I don’t like the idea of her blowing North America off the planet, buddy,” Darcy retorted with a sarcastic look.

Freyr bowed, hand at his belt. “I apologize. I have known her since before she wore a maiden’s gown. The thought—all of this pains me greatly. I spoke insensitively.”

“I get it. We’re worried about her too.” Darcy jostled his shoulder, accepting his apology. He looked startled, but smiled down at her. Freyr was massive like Thor was massive—broad, solid, and huge in personality. Even in such a stressful time he smiled easily and often, and there was a hopeful tilt to his brow. Phil wanted to like him, and that just made him more annoyed. If it weren’t for Freyr, he and Sif and Barton wouldn’t be in this predicament. A roiling ball of resentment went on a tour of his chest and stomach, settling just under his breastbone. 

He took a deep breath in and out, consciously willing his resentment to be gone. Freyr hadn’t asked for all this any more than Phil had. It was okay to be angry, but Freyr wasn’t the one who deserved that ire. He reached out and took Darcy’s hand with his own, squeezing it gently. She looked at him gratefully, obviously thinking the movement was for her own benefit.

She had grown close with Sif since she had come to Earth, and she was as scared of the consequences for the world as she was for Sif. Hildegarde’s stance with the siphon wasn’t reassuring either.

“Alright kids; look away.” Stark flipped down a pair of goggles in a motion mirrored by Bruce and Hildegarde in the chamber. The last thing Phil saw before the light blossomed, blinding bright even behind his eyelids, was Hildegarde raising the siphon feed like a swordsman preparing for a finishing blow.

Sif screamed.

Freyr moved towards her but Darcy and Phil held him in place with a hand each, instinctively reaching for his clothes even while momentarily blinded.

Sif screamed like Hildegarde was tearing out her middle. She screamed like she was being crushed alive. She screamed like every bone in her body had been broken. She screamed until it didn’t seem she should have any more breath in her body and after that she gasped and keened and moaned. A transformer blew out, but the others seemed to be holding. Phil risked slitting open his eyes, and saw that Hildegarde had plunged the leads into Sif’s rib cage over where her heart would be, and black ropes of malicious energy snaked over and around, hitting the transformers in pulsing waves. Blood leaked sluggishly from around the puncture wounds, sizzling and boiling as it oozed down her side. Hildegarde’s hair was a blond cloud, crackling with electricity, and abruptly it ended.

“She’s drained dry,” Stark reported, checking his displays.

“I concur,” Hildegarde added from inside the chamber, hand on Sif’s forehead as though feeling her temperature. “I shall begin unraveling the magics in her. Gird yourselves.” Hildegarde moved her hands over Sif, a look of intense concentration on her face. The markings on Sif, as small as they had been when first they appeared on her skin, writhed and moved as though under Hildegarde’s command. She struck her palm into Sif’s breastbone as though trying to drive the breath from her, and a flash of light erupted which dazed Phil once more. Darcy gripped Phil’s fingers painfully tight.

“Cover!” Hildegarde shouted, from the sound of her voice fleeing the Hulk chamber. The door sealed and locked, and the room feeds picked up a keening sound probably coming from Sif.

The whole building shook with the force of the explosion. Darcy gasped out a scream, and Phil felt Freyr’s whole body tense. “She’s alive,” Bruce reported before anybody could do anything rash.

“And in one piece,” Stark added. “Huh. You Asgardians are freaky durable.”

Phil let out the breath he had been holding, and felt Darcy do the same. When his vision cleared enough to see what was happening, Hildegarde had returned to the Hulk-proof chamber and pulled the siphon leads from Sif’s chest while Bruce was staunching a flow of blood. Sif was trying to talk through a punctured lung.

“She will survive,” Hildegarde reported. “The danger to her has passed.”


	28. Chapter 28

Sif was unconscious for most of the day, but by the beginning of the next she was able to sit up on her own, and stand with help. Darcy and Barton were especially attached to the Asgardian, and, after settling her in the sunken couches on the common floor, were rarely apart from her. Barton seemed to revel in the physical affection Sif lavished on him. In her weakened state she did little more than run her palm rhythmically down from the crown of his head to the base of his tail, or rub gently under his chin, but he would purr and sit on or next to her four hours. Darcy came upon them chatting quietly sometimes, Sif recounting her exploits with the Warriors Three, and Barton presumably replying in kind.

Bruce wandered in during one of their quiet moments. He frowned at Barton as though something had just occurred to him, left to come back with a laser pointer.

He “ahem”ed and shuffled until Sif took notice of him. "Yes?" Barton chirruped in the same tone.

"I know you're not up for a lot yet but I figured if you guys wanted to play around..." He trailed off and activated the laser pointer, tracing a bright green dot around the furniture. Barton perked, muscles of his shoulders tightening and tail twitching in interest. "Betty's cat always loved these. Here." He offered the pointer to Sif. She took it, examining it carefully. "Don't point it in your eye," he added.

She gave it an experimental flick, and Barton leapt, flying at the dot with enthusiasm. "I thank you," Sif said sincerely. "In confidence, I feared the Hawk was growing restless from lack of exercise."

Phil suspected that Barton's enthusiasm for the laser pointer was equal parts repressed cat instincts, boredom, and a childish love of arbitrary games that Phil had never quite understood. Barton chased the laser pointer, which was more powerful than one would suspect, around the common floor. He did racing courses over the furniture, leapt across the countertops and tables, and chased it under the edges of the couch. Barton discovered, to everyone's surprise and consternation, that he could climb the vertical surface of the walls, though he did some considerable damage to the paint and drywall. When Hildegarde was present he took great pleasure in riding on her shoulder, getting a kingly view of the room and scent-marking her hair aggressively. She in turn seemed to enjoy having a passenger.

The sight of his asset adjusting, interacting, and providing mutual support warmed his heart. Things weren't normal, but neither of them was sulking in a mire of depression. It was comforting, to think that Barton had people who could support him if Phil was to no longer be available.

This was probably why Phil had such a strong reaction to coming up to visit Sif and Barton, and finding instead Stark chuckling over Barton who was alternately attacking and cuddling a small stuffed animal.

"What's going on here?" Phil asked sharply.

"Calm down halfpint—I just pulled some of the cat toys out of the stuff I had sent for you guys."

Barton, with a growl that was equal parts pleasure and angry frustration, sank his teeth into the defenseless stuffed animal, and delivered a deadly, eviscerating blow with his hind legs. A fine green powder showered out. Barton immediately began rolling and rubbing himself in it, making little “merp” sounds of mingled frustration and pleasure.

"Did you give him catnip?" Phil asked, staring up at Stark with the beginnings of murder in his eyes.

"Yeah. He went nuts when I pulled it out of the baggie." Stark shrugged negligently, unaware of, or ignoring, the warning signs of impending ass-kicking coming from Phil.

"You drugged my asset?" Phil asked, deadly calm.

"Asset schmasset," Stark replied with a condescending expression. "You're a kid and he's a cat. Let him be a fucking cat without getting your super-secret panties in a twist. It’s not even like he was your asset before all the crazy blew up in your face."

Barton continued to roll in the fine powder, eventually popping up and doing a few manic circuits of the room. He stopped, tense and alert, ears pinned back in alarm, and pounced on nothing.

"You drugged your teammate who was already vulnerable due to being physically transformed into another species and lacking the ability to communicate using English words."

"He's just engaging in a bit of recreational escapism via perfectly legal herbs."

Barton ran another circuit of the room, physically bouncing off of Phil and continuing in a somewhat unsteady line to attempt to hide under a couch which was too low for him to fit.

"Does that look recreational to you?" Phil asked, pointing at Barton's futile struggles.

"It's a party," Stark replied with a shrug.

"Get out." Phil pointed to the elevator door.

"You can't kick me out of my—"

"Get. Out." Phil pointed again, and the elevator doors opened. JARVIS obviously agreed that a strategic retreat from Phil's ire was best.

Stark pointed at him, opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, and then spun and exited via the elevator.

Phil took a breath, consciously willing the adrenaline and rage out of his system. Barton had given up trying to get under the couch but was instead staring into the middle distance in fascination. "JARVIS, please send one of the cleaning vacs to get the catnip up?" A roomba obediently trundled out from under the kitchen sink and began a cleaning rotation. Barton dive bombed it, jumping all over its top surface and activating a number of buttons.

"Barton," Phil said with a note of sharp command. Barton ignored him, continuing his assault on the whirring, confused machine. "Hawkeye," Phil tried. Barton stopped stock still and stared at Phil. The roomba took the opportunity to escape. "Come here." Phil pointed at a spot between his feet. Barton frolicked his way over, getting distracted once by his tail. Barton looked up at him with a disoriented, trusting expression. "I'm going to pick you up and we're going to go someplace safe for you to sleep this off, okay?" Barton let out a meandering meow and flopped over on his back, arching and displaying his soft belly.

Phil sighed and took that as consent. He gathered his squirming, opinionated, very high asset into his arms and held on firmly. Phil took him back to his quarters, finally deciding on his own bedroom as a safe area. He dropped Barton on the bed and closed the door. Barton flopped and rolled around on his bedspread in enthusiastic, drugged paroxysms.

"JARVIS, is there anything I can do to get this out of his system?" Phil asked worriedly.

"Searching..." After a pause, JARVIS answered. "Literature suggests time is the best cure, along with light entertainment.” Barton had leapt off the bed and wrestled a sock out of Phil's bureau. He tussled with it enthusiastically.

Phil sighed. Barton didn't like being in an altered state, no matter what he said while he was _in_ the altered state. The loss of control brought only bad memories for him, and he was always mortified by what he might or might not have done after coming down from a high.

The fact that Stark had so thoughtlessly done that to his supposed friend and teammate made Phil's blood boil. Barton was happily playing violent hide and seek with Phil's sock, and was no longer making unhappy sounds like a car with a bad transmission.

Phil picked up one of the fuzzy rubber balls which Barton had taken a shine to recently and held it up. "Hey, Barton." He continued to try to tear threads out of Phil's dress sock. "Clint," Phil tried. Barton perked up, eyes glassy but ears alert. "Fetch?" he suggested, tossing the ball across the room and into the ensuite bathroom. Barton's tail went up and he leapt after the tiny prize with an excited squeak.

\--

After a few hours Barton fell asleep on Phil's bedspread. Phil had some cut-up tenderloin ready for when he awoke, disgruntled and, from what Phil could tell, somewhat hungover. "Food," Phil offered when Barton tapped against the door and oozed out of his bedroom. Barton burred unhappily and trotted over to the meat, downing his meal in gulps.

"I will kill Stark if he does that to you again," Phil told Barton, utterly seriously. "That was unacceptable."

Barton made a noise which might have been agreement.

"If you think something like that is going on in the future, come and get me. Or have JARVIS get me. Okay? That was utterly unacceptable behavior."

Barton finished off the last gobbet of beef and licked his chops. Very deliberately, he met Phil's eyes, and blinked slowly. He sprawled next to Phil on the counter and rubbed his cheek along Phil's hand.


	29. Chapter 29

Thor rode hard from the Bifrost and Heimdall's watchful gaze to the palace. He brought word on Sif’s recovery as well as Freyr’s request for a blessing of his court and a missive for his mother’s eyes only. His steed was lathered and bloody in the mouth, and he spared a moment of regret for his mistreatment of the beast before jogging to the throne room where his father sat stewing. The conversation did not go well.

It raised no suspicion when after he visited his mother's recovery chamber. She was no longer in a healing sleep which was the only reason his father had resumed duties in the throne room. She smiled up at him through healing blisters, and she was the peaceful, giving love that he remembered from his childhood. He went to a knee at her bedside, and her fingers wove into his hair as they had when he stood only to her hip.

"Mother," he greeted, overwhelmed with gratitude that she was healing and disbelief that anybody wished such a sweet woman harm.

"Thor," she replied, "What troubles you?"

"I wish it did not bring me to your chambers as you only begin to recover, but your brother and the lady Sif beg a boon. Father has said he will not listen and closed his ears. I can not make him see the reason in it."

"Tell me," she commanded, weakened but still strong.

He spilled the tale out. How her brother had gone traveling to all the realms and fallen in love with a Jotun woman. How Freyr could not declare his love to her father and court her in the open. Freyr feared backlash against Gymir, his love’s father, were the frost giant to be seen dealing behind Asgard's back counter to the realms’ peace agreements, as well as against himself from Asgard for bedding down with her known enemies. How Sif wanted nothing to do with the throne and desired only to serve the realm. His anger, the hopelessness permeating his friends in Midgard, and the pervasive mood of fear which it seemed, had seeped into the deepest part of the psyche of all the realms. He told her of how the son of Coul who had stood as a sole man between his brother and rending a hole in the fabric of Midgard had been brought low and helpless by their family drama with no recourse, simply by proximity. He related how Hawkeye had been similarly forced into a body not his own and would remain isolated from his people until his condition could be remedied.

She listened quietly and attentively with the same look she would give to her loom when the strands got hopelessly tangled. With deft fingers she would pick apart the knot, teasing out tight spots and unraveling loops until once again the warp and weft marched in predictable fashion becoming a beautiful whole.

"Your uncle was always an idealist," she told Thor with a smile when he had finished. "Have you met this woman that he has gifted with his heart?"

Thor shook his head. "Nay. I have only heard him speak of her virtues, and they seem many and varied."

"As with your lady Jane," she replied teasingly. "Leave it to my brother to set himself on a union destined to tear our realms to pieces."

"Or to knit them again into one," Thor countered. "The prophecy my yet speak of him and this giantess. He thinks their love strong enough to weave a lasting peace between Jotunheim and Asgard.

His mother smiled. "You were always like him in some ways." She held out her hand. "Give it to me."

Thor almost blushed, ducked his head, and pulled a flattened paper from in the breastplate of his armor. He put it in her hand. "Sif trusted me not with memory of her words or faithful recitation," he admitted.

"She only wanted to be sure her words reached me without ambiguity. It is wisdom she has not often displayed. Would things were different; she would have made a fine queen." The last was said murmured to herself and probably not intended for Thor to hear. She read the letter quickly and nodded. "Her words support your own, and ask after a cure for the men stricken with her and Hogun."

"Forgive me leaving their plight to the last, but the matters of Asgard seemed most pressing."

"I would agree, except Hildegarde has sent descriptions of the magics used; they are most noxious. I have not seen such a mixture since my youth when Freyr and Odin served the Norns by digging a spreading rot out of a root of Yggdrasil. The magics that ate into Sif and that changed the others are potent and vile. We must do what we can to discover who gained access to the well of entropy that was the center of the working. I fear that the magics must all be combined to lift their transformations as they were combined to affect them. It is not merely a boon of Asgard that must be granted. Those versed in the ways of Jotun magic must help, and perhaps the Norn, for the entropy came from one of their protected wells from which all creation grows and into which all destruction empties."

"What can be done?" Thor asked. It was not often that the magics of his mother or the court mystics were insufficient to lift a curse, and the fact that they were not merely unwilling but incapable of doing so was deeply unsettling.

"If a practitioner from the Jotun can be found to aid you, I can likely rally the Norn. They are not well rooted in time, but even they will realize the import of studying these magics." Thor bowed his head over her hand, kissed it and pressed it to his cheek. "Your affection for the Midgardians is endearing."

"And you will speak for Freyr?"

"Of course I will speak for my brother," Freya told him with a weary smile. "I can not say all is certain, but I will throw my being behind a favorable resolution."

Thor kissed his mother's hand again and departed.

He spent some time in the library, looking through the Jotun royal lineages for any who might be called upon willingly for a favor. In his younger days he had thought of the frost giants as a barbarian rabble, barely better than beasts. Since his disastrous assault on Jotunheim and his discovery of his brother's true origins, he had made a study of what information was contained in the tomes of Asgard. The royal line contained the highest concentration of magical talent, but the Jotun were not particularly prone to monogamy, and there was no shame associated with consorting with those of lower castes. This meant powerful sorcerers occasionally popped up in remote regions.

His brief search brought no new hope for finding a sorcerer who could be persuaded to help his Midgardian friends. Blood debts were declared forgiven and resolved when Asgard had conquered and closed the borders of Jotunheim. Though there had been some minor contact before the great war, after, communications went silent. There were few still alive who would remember Asgardians as anything but brutal conquerors, and even those would see the Aesir as liars and betrayers.

His brother was an option, if all other options were exhausted, but Loki's madness had taken ever more disturbing turns until Thor was unsure if he would be assaulted during his visits, or have to watch quietly while Loki slept in a catatonic withdrawl from his imprisonment.

A guard's distinctive footfalls brought him from his contemplation. "Your father will share a drink with you," the guard told him curtly, tapping the butt of his halberd on the flagstones and leaving without awaiting an acknowledgement.

Thor glowered into the book of bloodlines and closed it with a moody thunk. The guard’s rudeness was merely a symptom of the poor opinion in which his father was holding him. He had not tried to lie about talking with Sif, but had stressed that he had made his father’s demands clear. In spite of that, he suspected his collaboration with Freyr to support his uncle’s court, and decision to not attempt to “bring the other man in” weighed against him. 

His father was in a receiving chamber, not the throne room. The walls were hung with tapestry, some woven by his mother and her handmaidens, depicting battles, feasts, and coronations. When Thor entered, his father nodded to a body servant, who poured two glasses of liquor and placed them close at hand. Thor sat at his father’s gesture.

“You’ve been putting thoughts in your mother’s head,” Odin said at last. He raised his glass to his lips and wet them with the strong liquor.

“Nay. I merely brought my troubles and laid them at her feet as I have not done since I was a boy. It was badly done that I not take advantage of her wisdom prior to now.”

“She was injured.” Odin waived off Thor’s distress with a dismissive hand.

“Before this disaster,” Thor insisted. “She is so kind and gentle of spirit, it belied her strength and experience in my mind. Regardless, she has spoke with you.”

Odin grumbled unintelligibly and took another sip from his cup. “She knows how to cut to the heart of me, that woman,” he said at last. “Even when forced to her bed to recover she sees more clearly than either of us, I think. She spoke eloquently for her brother and his court.”

“If you could accept Loki, a Jotun child, as your son, how could you not accept one of their race as your cousin?” Thor asked, attempting to sound reasonable.

Odin growled, fire flaring in his eye. “I brought a viper into our nest,” he rumbled. “And even now I grieve for his loss and for the worthless husk we keep under lock and key. Nay—you will not argue your way to my heart with that.”

“You speak—”

“SILENCE!” Odin roared. Thor shut his mouth with a click. “Your tongue has grown too free while you sat my throne and you forget your place. I had you here to tell you my decision, not to be swayed one way or the other. I will support Freyr’s court of this Jotun princess no matter how ill-advised I find it. It will cut the knees out from under those claiming that he will marry Sif and fulfill their prophecy. I will do this to destroy their hateful campaign of terror and violence against my people. If some benefit can be gained—if he can soothe the tensions between the Aesir and the Jotun—then I welcome that as well.” Odin looked darkly at Thor. “Your actions have done much harm in that respect. You will keep a check on your brash tongue when you find yourself once more in the presence of Jotun princes.”

“Aye, father,” Thor replied, attempting to sound suitably chastened. In truth he had changed greatly since his ill-advised incursion into Jotunheim, but the kernel of boastful rebellion still lay dormant within him. “Do you wish me to bring the news to my uncle that his court is thus sanctioned?”

“Yes. Be about your business. And thank your mother, for without her intervention I would not have seen the benefit in following your romantic notions.”


	30. Chapter 30

Phil felt the lack of activity and the release of anxiety crawling under his skin like ants. Darcy had gone glassy-eyed coming down from the adrenaline and unrelenting worry of the last few days. Barton was sulking in the ducts again, though the meat Phil had left in Natasha’s apartment had disappeared, so he concluded it was a controlled sulk. 

“I’m going to go for a swim,” he announced, hopping out of his desk chair.

Darcy stood, almost on automatic. “I’ll go with you, boss.”

“I’m not going to drown in the pool. I know how to swim,” he told her a bit sharply. Nobody seemed to want to leave him alone lest he hurt himself doing his normal everyday activities. Darcy made a dismayed face. She hadn’t intended to seem condescending. “You just look tired. Why don’t you take a nap and we’ll get in an hour or so before dinner?”

“I’m not trying to crowd you, bossman; I just see how Natasha worries about you and Clint like, hiding out in the apartments most days.”

“You... see Natasha being worried?”

“Well not like pacing and tearing out her hair, but she’s got her tells.” Darcy shrugged one shoulder as though being let into the small circle of people who could interpret Natasha’s mental state was nothing big.

“Well neither of you should be worrying. I’m adjusting, and quite honestly, all this togetherness is more people in my personal space than I’ve been used to in a long while. I just need a lot of alone time right now.”

Darcy gave him a sidelong look. “Okay. I’m gonna nap like a motherfucker and look at pictures of baby animals. If you’re sinking into a tiny suicidal depression you gotta tell someone though. Deal?”

He smiled half-heartedly. “Deal.”

It took some digging, but he found appropriately-sized swim trunks in the things Mrs. Robins had delivered. The pool towel, oversized for an adult, was ridiculously large wrapped around Phil’s pre-adolescent shoulders. It was soft like the belly of a puppy. It was so comforting being wrapped in the huge softness, it was almost a guilty comfort. He hugged the edges of the towel around his shoulders and hunched into it.

The pool in the Tower was equal parts opulent and terrifying. The far wall of the deep end abutted a huge window looking out over Midtown. He took the stairs into the lagoon off to the side of the tiled lap lanes. He hadn’t been in the water since before his injury. Between having an open wound and having limited mobility through his shoulders, it hadn’t seemed like a good idea.

He’d grown up swimming in Lake Michigan, polar bearing until his mother forbade him to go into the frigid waters late in the season. The rhythm was calming in a way running never had been. His body felt wrong, obviously, and the slope of the pool put the water over his head almost as soon as he stepped off the steps. He’d found a pair of child-sized goggles in the locker rooms and appropriated them, so he could appreciate the workmanship on the bottom of the pool, still the clean white of fresh new gel coat.

Everything was wrong—his limbs were the wrong length, shape, and strength, and his joints felt too loose and mobile, but with some concentration he got into the swish, pull, kick of a breaststroke and managed two laps that seemed longer than anything he’d ever done in a pool. He switched to a freestyle and then to a lazy backstroke. As he moved his limbs he felt his sought-after calm settle in his bones. In the quiet intersection of air and water there was peace to be found, and he chased it, lap after lap.

His body flagged before his mind was fully at ease, which was fortunate enough because Freyr was waiting at the foot of the pool.

“I go to your fortress to speak with your Fury. The lady Sif accompanies me and I thought it fitting that you and your shield brother accompany us. I will speak on many topics on which your opinion might have bearing. I am told Prince Thor has returned from Asgard with news to which, to me, it seems you should be privy.”

Phil levered himself out of the pool and accepted the towel Freyr offered. Freyr made him feel small, and would have made him feel small even if he was not in his ten-year-old body at the time. Freyr had the immense weight of a huge personality about him which, though politely restrained, seeped out from his very being. “JARVIS, can you notify Barton please.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replied. Freyr followed him to his quarters at a companionable pace. For as much as matters were urgent enough to bring him to Phil at the pool, now that he had located Phil he did not seem in any particular rush. Phil changed into his clean suit and slipped on sturdy shoes. Perhaps when your life span operated on the scale of eons, rushing was relative.

“I have often enjoyed swimming to limber the body, but few of the Aesir or Vanir enjoy the pastime,” Freyr commented.

“I got used to it when I was a child,” Phil replied, then, looking down at himself in his undersized clothes he added, “the first time.”

“So not all of your people swim?”

“No. It’s a requirement for SHIELD physical readiness exams, but in the normal population it’s like any other sport; you don’t have to learn how to do it.” Freyr nodded as though it was as he expected. “How are we getting to SHIELD?” Phil asked. 

Freyr frowned. “I had assumed your household maintained suitable riding beasts, or perhaps more of the conveyance on which I arrived at this building.” Barton trotted up to meet them, meowing something long and no doubt informative. “I do not know this Man of Pleasure,” Freyr replied to Barton with confusion.

“He’s talking about Happy Hogan; Stark’s driver,” Phil filled in. “Is he free?” he asked JARVIS.

“He is not,” JARVIS replied regretfully, “However a chauffeur from the driving pool can be arranged for immediate departure, or SHIELD can be called for a vehicle.”

“The motor pool should be fine,” Phil replied.

“Your car is waiting in basement level 4,” JARVIS informed them.

JARVIS didn’t treat him any differently. It was patently stupid to be grateful to the AI for that small blessing, but he was. Glancing at Barton he saw his asset was in good spirits with his tail up in interest and ears pricked alertly. On four legs, on open ground, he moved beautifully. Phil had admired his grace before in acrobatic feats, but the simple act of jogging to keep up with Freyr’s long stride was poetry. Barton chirruped curiously at Phil, and he could almost imagine Barton’s voice asking, “Coulson?” on the comms, checking the communicators before going on an operation.

“Nothing,” Phil responded, smoothing down his tie.


	31. Chapter 31

Stark apparently favored recruiting drivers who had worked in the Fast and the Furious franchise, or were former demolition derby champions, but Freyr at least seemed to enjoy the experience. At first Phil had tried to hold his asset in place on his lap for fear of him being thrown across the car. After Barton scored a few welts into Phil’s thighs, Barton punctured holes in the real leather seats next to Phil instead, and hung on grimly. Their driver swept into SHIELD’s first security checkpoint with only a bit of tire-squealing. The person on security was the same one who had waved Phil through for months before the Battle of New York, but he peered into the car suspiciously, calling up to a more senior security desk.

“We got one of Stark’s, a Viking, and a kid with a cat.”

Barton made an unhappy noise and pulled his claws out of the seat cushion. Phil glared daggers at the security officer. Stark’s driver said something to him that made the officer frown. Whoever he was talking to on the headset said something to distract the security officer.

He frowned at the occupants of the car once more and waved them through. The second checkpoint scanned for explosives and radioactive or chemical material but ignored the car’s occupants. Stark’s driver looked bored with the process, as though she had to go through it quite often.

Phil tried to use his security badge, with little hope, at the security desk. Right as they were on the verge of actually getting into an argument, complete with Barton’s outraged interjections at being called a “pet”, Sitwell showed up. “I got this,” he told the man at the desk. Sitwell nodded to him in a way so familiar it made him ache in his chest for their late-night coffee and pie. Sitwell glanced at Barton and nodded, and eyed up Freyr. “You’re the Viking?”

Freyr looked troubled as though he was unsure Sitwell grasped what was going on. “I am Freyr, former lord of Alfheimr, wielder of—”

“Jasper Sitwell,” Sitwell broke in, offering his hand to shake. He didn’t even wince at Freyr’s grip.

“I was summoned to meet with the Fury, but our welcome has been lukewarm at best. Explain the impertinence of the servants.” Freyr eyed up the security desk once more.

Sitwell smirked. “The Fury—he’ll like that.” Barton meyowled petulantly. _Lets get this over with_ , Phil interpreted to himself. “Right this way gentlemen. Cat.” Sitwell smirked again as though he thought he was pretty funny. Barton marched just in front of Phil like an honor guard, but after the fourth time of narrowly avoiding a SHIELD-issue boot to the face or ribs, he hissed unhappily and climbed Freyr like a tree to ride high on his shoulder. Freyr smiled agreeably into Barton’s whiskered face, a shoulder pad in his doublet taking the brunt of Barton’s claws.

Everyone stared. SHIELD was used to the unusual and extraordinary, but their party was high on the list of strange. Those outside of Level 6 clearance hadn’t been informed of Phil’s transformation (or not-actually-dead status, though some of them had figured it out by seeing Phil on his few trips to SHIELD HQ) and their motley party was no doubt noteworthy. Phil felt the weight of curious, kindly, concerned eyes on him as he never had before. He was bombarded with the weight of eyes and curiosity and the feeling of being _other_.

He was pathetically grateful when they slipped into the Director’s office and out of everyone’s sight. Barton looked as unhappy as a cat in a cold, dirty puddle, riding on Freyr’s shoulder. The Director was standing looking down on his operations center with a scowl.

“We busted those idiots who stole our hard drives,” Fury said without preamble. “They tried to break the encryptions using magic and did not like their results. Luckily Banner’s tracker picked up on their activity and alerted a squad before they could disappear again.” Fury’s grin when he turned to them was sharp and mean. “Finally got those FoH bastards on something they can’t squirrel out of. International espionage charges should do pretty good on getting us probable cause warrants in the future, too.”

“This doesn’t look like a rainbows-and-puppydogs situation, sir,” Phil replied, reading into Fury’s vicious expression.

“No. We found more evidence that they’d been aided by non-earth entities. We’re lodging a formal complaint with Asgard over technology leakage resulting in substantial damages to our information security and personnel.”

“What means this?” Freyr asked, confused.

“There’s been another diplomatic incident with Asgard,” Phil translated.

Fury glared at Freyr. Freyr stared sternly at Fury. Phil felt entirely too short for the conversation, a perception not changed when Thor barged in.

He looked at Phil, Fury, and Freyr in turn, embracing the last in a bone-creaking hug. “Uncle! Would that we met under better circumstances. I must relay my news without delay and be upon my various missions.”

“Then be about it!” Freyr gestured for Thor to speak. It was like two Thors were present, but somehow more so. The Director raised an eyebrow as though he was calculating the shortest distance to his headache medicine.

“My mother the queen says that if we might enlist a Jotun sorcerer of sufficient skill, the spell upon Hawkeye and the son of Coul may be lifted through the combined efforts of the realms! We need only find a suitable and willing individual,” he replied.

“But what news of the marriage?” Freyr asked impatiently.

“Father has given his blessing to your court, though he will deny it if you give Jotunheim cause for insult.” Freyr nodded thoughtfully.

“My love’s father is a powerful sorcerer amongst her people. Mayhap he would be induced to aid us in this. I shall leverage what assets I have built there to your aid, for your predicament is partly my fault and you have done much for the Lady Sif while I stood by helpless.”

Thor beamed. “It is a good day then! There is hope and a clear path; truly the fates have a plan for us all this day.”

Fury opened his desk and pulled out a bottle of aspirin. He dry swallowed a few and glared at Thor. “Be that as it may, we need to complete a debrief with Mister Freyr here. Agent Sitwell is outside. He’ll direct you to AD Hill as she needs a few words with you. Phil? You can stay behind. I need a word.” He rolled his eye. “And Barton too.”

Barton jumped to the Director’s desk from Freyr’s shoulder, and sat at attention. Phil sidled towards the desk and Thor and Freyr thundered out.

“Sit down, Phil,” Fury said when they had left.

“I would prefer to—”

“Sit the fuck down.” Fury glanced at Barton, grimaced, and sat himself. His legs were splayed open and his posture was slumped in defeat. Phil climbed up into one of two armchairs and tried to look anything but as terribly uncomfortable as he felt. Fury sighed and glanced at Barton again. “Get the fuck off my desk, hairball.” Barton merped indignantly but leapt to the other armchair and settled. “We can’t have you coming to SHIELD like this,” Fury said after a long, uncomfortable pause. “Either of you,” he added.

“Sir, I—”

Fury held up a hand, silencing him with the gesture. He looked old. He looked tired. He looked... sorry. “We’re not going to give up on either of you, but I don’t need the oversight committee asking me why I’m employing a kid and a cat. Stark and HR are working something out so you can still work, albeit quietly, but I need you two to keep it low profile, and that means staying out of HQ and staying out of combat. Do you understand me?”

Phil nodded. “Yes sir.”

Barton replied in a not at all reassuring manner. “Barton, so help me if you fuck up this directive I will _show you_ how many ways there are to skin a cat.”

Barton almost got argumentative, but a stern look from Phil shut him up.

“Is that all, sir?” Phil asked.

“That’s all, Phil. Call if you need anything; I know everyone here misses you. Some people even miss Barton,” he added almost reluctantly.

\--

Phil wanted a drink. He rarely wanted a drink; usually only after a particularly traumatic op, or to help him get over the wired hump after a mission where he was so tired he couldn’t go to sleep. Those nights he would fix himself a vodka and soda (Natasha’s influence—the vodka, not the soda) and watch the bubbles go flat.

He was in the body of a child, though, and that would have at best disastrous consequences. Instead he stared into his club soda, a lime wedge floating forlorn and abused, watching the bubbles fizzle out. Barton was lying flat on the kitchen counter, a picture of dejection, watching the lime as well. His tail tip wasn’t even twitching; a sure sign he was slipping into depression.

The reality of it all had sunk in with their trip to HQ. Phil was too young to be taken seriously let alone be employed by SHIELD, and if he was honest with himself, he would be for at least a decade. In between he’d watch Barton age as a cat, completely cut off from other humans in a way so profound that Phil would probably never be able to fully comprehend it. It was almost crueler that Clint retained his human-level intellect. If he had become fully an animal, it would only be those around him forced to grieve. With this sentence, Barton would have to watch those around him leading their lives without him, moving on, and living up to their potentials while he languished, chasing laser pointers and ducking well-meaning Tower staff who thought he was lost. If he was being honest with himself, Phil would be surprised if Barton didn’t go slowly (or not so slowly) mad with the confinement.

The pop-hiss of his flattening club soda continued like the inevitable march of time; too slow for him, too fast for Barton.

Barton made a pitiful, helpless sort of mew which tapered off into a whine of pure misery. He pressed himself lower against the countertop. Phil was sitting on one of the stools, his legs kicking in the air just above the rung designed to support his feet. “I know how you feel, Barton. Kind of.” 

Phil and Barton had separately requested that JARVIS quit trying to translate Barton’s vocalizations until he could do a better job of it and not add to the cacophony. Phil guessed at what Barton was expressing, and got yeses and nos with paw taps. Barton tapped his right paw. _Yeah_ his body language said. “Is there anything I can do?” Barton raised his head and tilted it to the side as though asking _Really, Phil, you’re asking about me?_ “If there’s something, name it. I got us into this mess and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to do what I can for you.” 

_No_. 

“No what? There’s nothing I can do?” Phil didn’t find that surprising. What he could do he had already done. He’d leveraged every asset, every favor, every ounce of brain power and magic power at his disposal to try to get this righted, and it only became more clear that they were destined to be wrong.

_No_ , more emphatically. Barton’s tail twitched in agitation. He made a growling moaning meow that Phil hadn’t heard yet in his repertoire of cat noises. It sounded angry but with an undercurrent of reproof. _No._

“What ‘no’?” Phil asked, perplexed.

Barton mrred in a way Phil now understood as _well if I could just say it we wouldn’t be playing this fun game_.

Phil thought over what he had said. He’d offered to help if he could, then he’d said— “Are you saying this isn’t my fault?”

Barton made a prolonged yawlp which ended in a condescending look and an emphatic _yes_. Barton stood and turned in an agitated circle and tapped a yes again. _Of course that’s what I’m saying_ his body language said.

“I found the bomb. I didn’t get people in quickly enough. I should have kept you all from coming back. Then maybe it would have just been me. Or Strange could have disarmed it. Or it never would have gone off because Sif wouldn’t have been in proximity.”

Barton did the terrifying possessed cat posturing and backed up from him, calming after a brief moment where Phil wasn’t entirely sure what was going up in his walnut brain. Barton sat down and pointedly groomed his tail before looking embarrassed by the impulse. He composed himself and approached Phil once again, letting off a series of cat noises that were conversant, condescending, angry, and biting. He emphasized his final statement by hitting Phil’s glass with his left paw, knocking it over so lime and fizzing water spilled over his paws and Phil’s lap, and so the glass rolled and shattered on the floor in an emphatic _no_.

He stood his ground as though waiting for Phil to respond. Cold fizzing water soaked through his pants and into his shoes. “I have no idea what you were saying.”

“I believe Agent Barton wished to express that you were not at fault for the situation you find yourselves in. Emphatically.” JARVIS sounded apologetic for interjecting.

Barton stamped out an affirmative in a puddle by the mangled lime wedge. He stalked up to Phil and very deliberately bumped foreheads. _We’re in this together_ he seemed to be thinking.

“OK. I hear you.”

Barton stared at him for a moment longer with his terribly expressive cat eyes as though checking to be certain his message was sinking in. He nodded as though satisfied and leapt off the counter to sit on the couch. He mrred invitingly and rubbed under his own chin in demonstration, looking at Phil hopefully. Phil evidently looked as though he wasn’t going to acquiesce so Barton pulled out the pleading adorable eyes that, even before he was a cat, had worked a time or two on both Phil and Natasha. He chirped invitingly.

“You’re saying coming and rubbing your chin is what I can do for you?” Barton chirped affirmatively and began purring. “I am going to tell Natasha _and_ Stark about this when we get back to normal and they are going to give you so much shit.” Barton burred negligently and flopped to his side, baring his chin at the best angle for scratching. Phil obliged.

They were both interrupted during an impromptu nap by the intercom.

“Boss?” Darcy’s voice asked. “I think we got incoming.”

“Incoming what?”

“Aesir? Vanir? Who the fuck knows?” she asked, sounding worried. “Freyr and Hilde were talking and he went all silent and on point like that dog from ‘Up’.” There were shuffling sounds. “Aand he’s headed for the roof.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Phil told her, already running for the elevator.

Hildegarde, Darcy, Freyr, and a confused-looking Steve half in his armor were on the roof when Phil and Barton arrived. It was a regular welcoming committee for the Vanir man who had evidently appeared moments before. The Vanir was tall like all of his kind, though his build was closer to that of a distance runner than a warrior. He wore leather pants and a thick jerkin, with a thick fur-lined cloak with an exterior that sparkled like the night sky over his shoulders. A large gold pin in the shape of a smiling sun held the cloak in place, marking him as one of Freyr’s vassals.

The Vanir was handing a worn wooden rod to Freyr with a deep bow.

“What news?” Freyr asked before anybody could say anything else.

“That’s Skírnir,” Darcy stage-whispered to Phil.

Skírnir dropped to a knee and bowed his head in a show of supplication. “None good I fear, my lord.”

“Still I would hear it. Rise and relay all that transpired on Jotunheim.”

Skírnir bowed his head again as though in shame, and stood. “I fear I have served you poorly, my lord. I took Skithbladner to the land of the frost giants as you commanded, and went to the hall of Gymir to plead your case. I told him how desirable you found his daughter Gerd and that you wished to join her to your household and make her your wife.”

“He _what_?” Darcy cried. “Dude, you never— Whatever.” She threw her hands up in surrender at everyone’s surprised look.

“What did he say? He did not agree to the marriage if I read your tone correct.”

“Nay, he did not take it well. He called you a fool and me a gormless knave. He said no Vanir would come and take his daughter like a precious jewel and spirit her off to some far realm for his pleasures. He seemed offended that you would take her from her home were you to marry, but I know not if it is Jotun custom or pigheadedness on his part, for his lands are not flush with livestock or arable ground and his people are poor. Surely any change in circumstance would be beneficial to her.”

“Seriously?” Darcy interjected. Everyone stared at her. “Okay, so fine, tell me how this all ended,” she added belligerently.

“I suggested that perhaps ‘twould be to his best interests to secure this union, for Freyr is a powerful man indeed and to earn his ire would hurt not only his small kingdom but also the entirety of Jotunheim. I related some of the great victories that Lord Freyr has won, to impress upon him that my Lord would be a worthy match for one so lowly as his bloodline.”

Thor looked troubled. Steve’s mouth was actually hanging open. Darcy looked like she was very close to punching Skírnir in the testicles.

“And?” Freyr asked.

“I was sent from his realm and the ways closed shut behind me,” Skírnir replied, sounding hurt and angry. “He was rude and without honor.”

“Hold the hell up there, sparkles.” Darcy raised her hand up and stepped forward.

“Who are you—” Skírnir began.

“Let her speak,” Steve interrupted, stepping forward as well in support of Darcy.

“I am—” Skírnir attempted to continue.

Barton interrupted, puffed up and growling, saying something that made Skírnir step back, and Thor smirk indulgently.

“So you showed up at the family home, told dad that Mr. Golden Boy here,” she thumbed to indicate Freyr, “thought his daughter was hot and totally wanted to get into her clout cloth. Then you said he should be glad the foreign prince wants to fuck her in his golden palace because he lives in such a shithole that she would be glad to escape. _THEN_ you threatened him if he didn’t turn her over. And _you’re_ the one who’s calling him names? Are you fucking _slow_?”

“Lady, you are too free with your tongue,” Freyr warned her. 

Darcy put her palm in his face in a “talk to the hand” gesture. Phil cheered her on privately, watching with a glowing sort of satisfaction as she schooled the men twice her size and a hundred times her age in basic interpersonal skills and manners. “Did you seriously send this numbnut to whisper overtures of your love? Because I thought you had more sense than a bowl of peanuts. Seriously dude: for shame.”

“You have given me insult which I am not obliged to ignore, mortal,” Skírnir said, clearly angry. His hand had wandered into his cloak, potentially reaching for a weapon of some sort. Steve moved to stand slightly in front of Darcy, shield at the ready. Phil and Barton moved forward, Barton with his claws out and Phil with his hand over one of his pistols.

“Think about what you’re doing, son,” Steve warned, completely ignoring the fact that Skírnir was probably a thousand years his senior.

“Uncle. I would speak with you.” Thor’s gesture requested an aside, and though Freyr’s cheeks were puffed out with anger, he joined Thor. Though they no doubt intended their conversation to be private, their loud manners meant everyone was uncomfortably aware of what they said.

“Darcy is forward in her manner, but I have learned much about the ways of women from her and the Lady Jane. Her statements have merit which you have not considered fully. I do believe that Skírnir has done you a disservice with your love. Think, uncle.”

They muttered back and forth like rolls of disgruntled thunder. Freyr finally turned once more to the group. “Skírnir, methinks this was ill done. I had thought you prepared for this task but I sent you in error. You were the tool for the wrong job. You must go to my sister in Asgard and present yourself. Tell her what you have told us and do as she bids you. Whatever penance she metes out will ease all hearts, and mayhap you will learn some of the wisdom of women.” Thor nodded encouragingly. “As to my courting, I must go in person and mend the rift that has formed. There is an ache in my heart that just as my— the King and Queen of Asgard agree to my union, my beloved’s family forbids it. This will be resolved.” He nodded his head as though satisfied with his pronouncement. “Heimdall?

Skírnir moved as though to protest, but he was pulled through the Bifrost by Heimdall.

Steve dropped his shield down to his thigh. “That was... abrupt,” he commented.

“Heimdall has never been one to dally,” Freyr agreed. They all stared awkwardly at one another for a long moment.

“Come, Steven. If there is naught my uncle requires, I would beg you as a sparring partner. Times have been such of late that I find my verve for combat waning through disuse.”

Steve smirked. “I don’t think that’s a danger, but sure. Gentlemen? Darcy.” Steve nodded to each of them and he and Thor departed.

“Are you leaving now?” Darcy asked.

Freyr gave her a dubious look, as though he was leery of why she was asking. “Imminently, yes.”

“You’re taking me with you,” she told him matter-of-factly.

“You presume much, child.”

“You’re the guy who had the bright idea to send Misogyny and Imperialism Today as your emissary to the lady you’re crazy about. Yeah, I presume that you’ll need all the help you can get.” Freyr glowered into the middle distance. “Look. Do you really like this girl?”

“She is a noble woman. Her skills at homecraft and as a leader amongst her people are unparallelled. She is brave, and ventures into the mines in the hills of her home to work with those employed beneath the earth. She is as beautiful as the night sky and her eyes are like twin suns burning into the depth of my very soul. She has humor within her that is cutting and sharp, and a mind to match her quick wit. And she suffers not fools.” He had the same dopey smile that Phil recognized from Thor espousing the glowing qualities of Jane Foster. Though he had had his doubts, it seemed clear that Freyr loved more than the mere idea of this woman.

“Okay, sounding good so far. So like, what are you planning to do when you guys get hitched, assuming she’s into that sort of thing? Take her off to your place? Steal her inheritance? What?”

“The reins of leadership in Alfheimr have been trusted to another. I have but a ceremonial place amongst the Aesir, and I have no designs on the throne of my sister. If she would have me, I would work her family’s lands and put my efforts to bridging Jotunheim’s relationship with the others of the Nine Realms. I would see the worlds spinning once more in harmony and balance as it was meant to be.”

Freyr spoke with passion and conviction. Darcy seemed as impressed as Phil felt. “Okay, good start. I can totally work with that. But see, you got all that to say, and Mr. Fuckitup went with ‘Freyr thinks your daughter is hot and wants to carry her out of this hovel’. Not only untrue, but also totally not the tact you need in this situation. I can help you fix this. I got mad skills with relationships. I fixed Hill’s thing with that guy in R&D, and look, Clint and Phil are talking again.” She gestured towards Phil and Barton, who looked at each other with identically surprised looks.

When he thought back on it, Darcy had helped them mend their fences in tiny ways, and knocked their heads together when that hadn’t worked. From Barton’s expression, she had been doing a lot on his side of things to set them straight, without Phil’s knowledge. “Is this true? Has she done these things?” Freyr asked Phil.

“Ms. Lewis displays a remarkable affinity for gauging emotional states and inferring subtle social cues which would likely be beneficial for your goals. In spite of appearances, she can be tactful and quite politic when the situation requires.”

When they had started out, Phil had liked Darcy, but he had never quite expected to come to be so proud of her. Her growth as an analyst was gratifying and satisfying in a way he couldn’t remember being satisfied in a long time. Under normal circumstances he would in no way recommend that Darcy be sent across the galaxy to negotiate with aliens on behalf of another alien’s love interest, both for her own safety and for the security of intergalactic relations. Over the last few weeks he had come to be intimately familiar how the Aesir and the Vanir were laws and forces of nature unto themselves. If Freyr decided Darcy was going to fix his interpersonal problems, there was little Phil could do to stop him.

Freyr bowed to Darcy. “I will accept your aid in this matter then, Miss Lewis. If you wish to accompany me, prepare yourself.”

“Yes!” Darcy did a fistpump of victory and ran off towards the stairs.

“Can I ask you something?” Phil asked when Darcy was out of hearing.

“Of course.”

“Do you think there is someone Gerd or Gymir could put me in contact with on Jotunheim who could help with Barton and my problem? I ask because Thor suggested that only through the intervention of several skilled sorcerers could we hope to drain the magic from either of us that is keeping us in these forms.”

Freyr stroked his beard thoughtfully. “It is possible. Gerd’s line has strong sorcerers in its number and like as not they could direct you to one who could aid. I had not thought to leverage their knowledge towards your aid,” he replied, sounding approving.

“Take us with you.”

Barton meowed something that was probably a similar request.

Freyr looked doubtful. “Please,” Phil added. “Let us plead our case directly to them if need be. If this is our last hope—our last chance to be returned to normal—then let us fight for it.”

Darcy burst back onto the rooftop. “I’m ready!”

Freyr looked at Phil and Barton doubtfully. “Are you prepared to depart?”

“Yes,” Phil replied, too relieved to be going to risk delaying their departure further. Barton meowed an assent.

“Then let us push off from the grasping bindings of your planet.”

Freyr pulled the wooden rod which Skirnir had returned to him from inside his coat and shook it authoritatively. _Something_ expanded outwards from it, forming an opaque barrier between their small party and the rest of the world. There was an abrupt pop, the feeling of being compressed by giant forces, and Phil passed out.


	32. Chapter 32

Phil awoke with Barton pawing at his face and vocalizing his distress. “M’fine,” Phil mumbled, rolling over to see where he was.

It was as though they were all inside a giant translucent soccer ball on a pitch as large as every universe possible. The wild fluctuations of gravity’s pull and push tore at Phil’s stomach, and Barton yowled unhappily. Phil could only agree with the sentiment of hopeless discomfort. Somehow the physical unease was magnified by the fact that outside the shining confines of their soccer-ball world, the universe stretched, glorious and unknowable to forever and beyond. Galaxies swirled, planets orbited, and the stars themselves seemed to dance in the quiet depth of space.

“Hold just a moment longer and the currents will ease our transit,” Freyr informed them, straining against a wooden tiller at his side. They seemed to slow, and at the same time accelerate, and Phil’s stomach no longer fought with him.

“Holy crap-nuggets,” Darcy exclaimed in awe, plastered against a clear octagonal wall. They sped by a binary system, white dwarfs locked in a dance routine on the scale of planets’ ages.

Freyr smiled indulgently at Darcy.

Phil glanced around for a source of propulsion but couldn’t find one. It _was_ magic, but Phil asked, “What’s making us go?”

Freyr let out a hearty laugh. “Skithbladners’ sails, of course.” He gestured into space, and sure enough Phil could see the filaments of spider-silk thin threads spreading fore and aft. They were only visible when glinting with the light of passing stars. “Currents and winds control every journey. We may react to them, but to try to change them is a fool’s folly. I have journeyed to the worlds beyond the nine realms, but it is always clear why our worlds are connected as they are. The currents and tides betwixt them are strong and sure. To journey through the unknown eddies is treacherous at best, and I find myself well satisfied in known waters these days.”

Barton chirruped and burred a bit sarcastically. Darcy raised an eyebrow at Freyr. “He says that I refer to the cold depths of space when I say waters, and he chides me for the liberty,” Freyr informed them. “Methinks the Hawk does not like his feet without the reassurance of a planet’s pull.”

“That makes two of us, bro,” Darcy told Barton, holding out a hand. He high-fived her in an absolutely adorable move, glanced at Phil, and dared him to make something of it. “How long are we out here?” she asked, leaning her cheek against the see-through material of their conveyance.

“But a small time; hours. I fear the landing on Jotunheim will be rough, though. My normal paths have been blocked, part by the Jotun and part by Asgard to prevent incursions by the Traitor. We will have to forge a new path, and I do not think the harbor we ground in will be as soft as I am accustomed.”

The hours they spent in Skithbladner were like the most amazing Nova special. Phil could hardly find it in himself to be anxious he was so overawed by the experience. Working for SHIELD, it was a necessary skill to be jaded. Aliens: whatever. Superhumans? It happened. A kid from Queens who spontaneously combusted? Seen it before. Phil was professionally nonplussed. Having not only the opportunity, but the blinding impetus, to experience hours of what could only be called awe with neither judgment nor calls on his mind or skills was a rare treat. Barton joined him, sprawling on his back. No matter where Phil looked, it was an amazing view. All the surfaces were see-through so even if he lay face-down, the passage of space was not just visible but spectacular.

“Makes you realize how small you really are,” Phil commented, mostly to himself.

“Mrrr,” Barton replied in agreement. Barton tapped him on the arm and rubbed his own ear demonstratively. 

Phil smiled and obliged, scratching behind his ears and down his neck. Barton purred. “I was worried we’d never have this again,” Phil confided. “This… being okay with each other.” Barton trilled a questioning noise. “I just…” Phil stopped and gave Barton’s ears attention. His eyes slitted closed as he rubbed into Phil’s fingers. “I left you to pick up the pieces without me.”

Barton’s needy, demanding movements stopped abruptly. He stilled into a hunter’s quietude. “I’m still not really sure what you were most angry about, but… I understand why you were.” Barton tilted his head sideways, resting his cheek on Phil’s fingertips and meeting his eyes sideways. They were Barton’s eyes. They were so damnably familiar and so damnably expressive. They were sad and tired and calm. They saw right into Phil’s middle, it seemed. “I thought it would be better if I came back whole. The damage had been done; you all thought I was dead already. What was being dead a bit longer, if it meant I didn’t have to burden you all with my weakness?” Barton bristled at that, the fur of his hackles puffing in agitation. “I know, it was stupid. It wasn’t right of me to do that to you, even if Fury was telling me it was a good idea.” Barton gave him a sidelong glance, recrimination and censure. “I’m sorry. I made the wrong call. I was in a bad place and I made the wrong call and it hurt everyone. But I think it hurt us the most.”

Barton chirruped his grudging agreement, and chewed gently on Phil’s thumb. Reaching out his forepaws he grabbed hold of Phil’s wrist and pulled the hand in his mouth towards his chest. He chewed and nuzzled Phil’s hand, too small and too soft, and it was absolution.

\--

The landing was, as promised, rough. Barton and Phil were thrown across the full length of Skithbladner when the first crosscurrent hit, and only saved from further rattling by Freyr’s outstretched arm. Darcy was already clinging to his leg like a romance novel heroine, and she gathered Phil and Barton close.

Jotunheim from space was oddly beautiful. Channels marched across its surface in abstract patterns. Ice glinted in huge fields while impossible rock formations rose elsewhere. It was an alien landscape, no doubt, but it was not without fierce beauty. The view was abruptly cut off by arcs of flame as they approached the outer atmosphere. The wing-like sails folded into a different configuration for planetary entry. Phil was abruptly reminded of every sci-fi movie he had ever watched in which the ship landing on a planet had broken into flaming wreckage before landing. He gripped Barton’s middle a bit harder. Barton squeaked in protest, but his claws were dug into Phil’s shirt, so he didn’t let go.

Their fall slowed significantly in the middling upper atmosphere, and by the time they were amongst the scant cloud cover, the flames had receded and they were almost floating. Freyr redeployed the sails and they glided down to Jotunheim’s surface. Freyr seemed to be looking for a particular location, eventually settling in a rock formation that approximated a circle. The bones that held the clear panes of the exterior of Skithbladner in their almost spherical shape glowed a hot silver for a moment and began folding down. An opening formed at the top, growing wider until the ship had folded itself entirely into the rudder in Freyr’s hand. The rudder then folded a few times into a baton small enough to slip into Freyr’s pocket. 

As soon as the clear walls of the ship dropped, a pervasive cold blew in. It was the cold of a castle in deep winter. It was the cold of hoarfrost and mountaintops. It was the quiet cold that drew you down to rest and never let you rise again. It was a killing cold.

Phil shivered. Barton shivered. Darcy pulled on a down coat and gloves designed for the Saskatchewan in January. “I told you guys it was supposed to be cold,” she said defensively. Phil’s teeth chattered. “I did tell you didn’t—” she stopped, looking guilty. “I gotta stop having conversations with myself and thinking it was with you.” Barton was puffed up as much as he could and sheltered between Freyr and Phil’s legs.

“I think I have a capelet which may serve you. Freyr felt about his person, shoving his hand into pockets and pouches. “Aah.” From one he pulled a cloak and hood which probably served him as a glorified scarf-hood combo, but which would serve Phil as a full garment. Its hood was massive and lined in thick, fluffy fur.

“Thank you,” Phil said through clenched teeth. He put it on, and immediately the chill eased. Barton jumped, caught on Freyr’s belt, and used that to get height enough to land on Phil’s shoulders. He draped around Phil’s neck like a stole. Barton was heavy, but he was also warm, and rumbling like a personal neck massager. Phil reached behind himself and pulled up the hood, nesting them both in the warmth of some long-dead and probably mythical creature.

“It will serve?” Freyr asked. Phil nodded, the hood bouncing. “Excellent. We have miles to cover and the secrecy of our whereabouts will hold for only a short time. Outsiders amongst the frost giants are quickly noted.”

Freyr quickly picked up a trail not more than a glorified goat path, if the Jotun kept goats, and they followed it down the hill. Distant smoke denoted a likely frost giant settlement which they skirted carefully. The path widened until it seemed they were walking a long-abandoned avenue. Juts of stone marched at regular intervals beside them. “Are those natural?” Phil asked.

“Nay. Once a place of gathering for the Jotun stood here. The pylons marked the border of the lands of amnesty. Any who entered would be treated peaceably while within them. The trade routes that supported these lands were destroyed during the war with Asgard; one reason in many the Jotun mistrust outsiders. My love’s father’s father was lord in those times but the wealth now is but a shadow of what it once was. Only his hall stands as proud as in yesteryear.” The pylons were as tall as Phil, which would put them just above the knee on a frost giant, and rounded at their tops.

“That must have created a lasting enmity between the races,” Phil commented.

“Aye. Our peoples are alike in many ways, but differ in some key ones that make us seem as unknowable to the other as the wind. When I ruled in Alfheimr we received emissaries on occasion from the Jotun. They are a strange people, but I think…” he sighed and dropped his head. “Perhaps my love is made of but hope and flighty thoughts. I wish to bring the realms together and my heart sets upon a woman to do that. Would that I had my sister’s practicality and not so much of this cursed romance.” He shook his head, but a crooked, wicked smile had hung itself on his mouth.

“The heart loves as it will, dude,” Darcy told him. “I once fell for this Bengali guy. His parents practically chased me off with rifles. He was not gonna marry some white girl with no family.”  
Freyr chuckled. “So you, too, understand the travails of the heart. I will know no rest before my love returns my regard, or rejects me so utterly that I know nothing will mend my soul’s break.”

“Let’s hope on that first one, ‘cause I don’t want to see the rifles that twelve foot tall alien giants carry to chase off unwanted potential in-laws.”

Freyr smirked. “I think the lady returns my regard. Though damage was done, it may be mended with your help. Come. She and her ladies are often tending crops at this time of day. The path is in that direction.”

“Day?” Darcy asked, looking up at the star that was Jotunheim’s sun, glowing icily in the sky. “This is day?”

“Verily.”

Barton chirruped sarcastically. “Okay, well I’m gonna go out on a limb and say she probably won’t like it if you sidle up to her at work and try to put the moves on. Why don’t you guys go try to make nice with dad and I’ll go talk with her, lady to lady?”

“Splitting up might not be a good idea,” Phil jumped in before Freyr could agree. He didn’t like the idea of sending Darcy off into hostile wastes any more than he liked the idea of throwing a toddler in a viper pit.

Darcy looked at him as though she could read all those thoughts as clearly as if they were written on his skin. Perhaps to her it was that clear. “Boss, I’ll be okay. I brought sparky, and Clint can come with me for protection. Right?” Barton merped in agreement.

Freyr nodded. “The ladies would not harm you, I think. Your plan has merit. The Son of Coul and I will journey to the great hall and beg an audience with Lord Gymir. The way is hence.” Freyr pointed down a goat path, which branched off the avenue into low rolling hills.

Darcy looked Phil in the eyes, scared and excited but also confident. “I got this, boss. I’ll make ya proud.” Barton wormed his way out of Phil’s hood and leapt to the ground, mincing up to Darcy and puffing up in the cold. “You want a ride?” Darcy offered as they headed down the indicated branching.

Phil and Freyr continued down the avenue until one of the rises gave them a view of a huge structure built of stone and ice. If a cathedral and an igloo had a child who was into heavy metal, this structure would have been it. Massive sheets of ice served as windows and skylights and cement amongst massive blocks of granite. Spires rose up in the front and the rear of the building, and precariously constructed outbuildings appeared to be adhered to the outside of the main structure like persistent burrs. The whole thing was built with one side leaning against a rising mountain, giving the impression that it was a baby penguin sheltered against the feet of its father. A stone courtyard with some statuary both intact and crumbling stretched for a mile around the building.

They walked to the edge of the courtyard and stopped. Phil looked to Freyr for instruction. “If you bear arms, remove them now.” Freyr slung the baldric holding his sword over his head and held it from his side. Similarly he unstrapped a huge hunting knife from his leg and pulled another smaller eating knife from his belt and held them by the blades. Phil glanced around the desolate landscape, and pulled his pistols out of their holsters. Freyr proceeded first, cautiously but no slower than before.

They were halfway to the hall, making their uneasy way from the edge of the courtyard, when a squadron of frost giants seemed to materialize from the very ground, armed and armored, and ready for combat. The leader of the squadron said something that grated and rumbled like an avalanche.

“Nay, sir, we come in supplication to the Lord Gymir for there has been a grave—”

The frost giant interrupted, sounding dismissive and angry.

“As you see we’ve disarmed ourselves,” Phil said, stepping forward. “We mean you no harm and only come to speak with the lord of this hall. I will give my weapons into your keeping if that will gain us passage.”

The frost giant squadron leader stared at Phil in curious disbelief as though a potted plant had begun speaking. He rumbled at Freyr who translated for Phil. Two frost giants from the squad stepped forward and snatched their weapons from their hands. The leader issued a command. “We are to follow,” Freyr repeated for Phil’s benefit.

They followed, crunching through the frost-covered courtyard. After the fourth time Phil slipped trying to keep up with everyone else, Freyr glanced at him. “Will you ride astride my shoulders, for I fear you will arrive bloody at this rate and that can do naught to aid our cause.” If Freyr had made the offer with even a hint of pity, Phil would have refused, but he said it as though the matter was entirely due to the practicality of the situation. Phil nodded, and offered his hand.

Freyr gripped his whole forearm and swung him to his shoulders in one swift movement. The feeling of giddy weightlessness _without fear_ was a sensation he hadn’t felt in years. Freyr’s other hand steadied him as he landed and adjusted to the perch, and he found himself looking up at the chins of the frost giant warriors instead of their groins. They were fierce and lean, except for two of the number who were built like bulls. They wore light armor, and some wore helmets of a dull grey metal. They had ridges and whorls on their skin like the fingerprints of mountains. Phil was unsure if it was a trait of the species, or if they were some sort of ritualistic markings, but they were different on each warrior. One of the Jotun noticed Phil’s examination, stared down at him, golden-red eyes glinting in the half-light of noon, and bared sharp, white teeth. Not one to lose his nerve, Phil nodded politely, maintaining eye contact until the giant raised a brow ridge and returned the gesture. The Jotun in question held his pistols up and spoke. His voice was like the cracking of sheets of ice in spring, and he seemed to be asking something about Phil’s weapons.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he responded, and Freyr seemed disinclined to translate. They were nearly at the hall. The Jotun in the lead gestured for them to pay attention as they approached. Two guards stood at the doors looking like stern statues, frost having whited their skin to a color not dissimilar to the granite they stood near. The lead Jotun said something and they ignored the entire party completely as they opened the doors and entered the hall.

They strode through an antechamber, and Freyr took the opportunity of a brief pause to help Phil get off his shoulders. From ground level, the antechamber loomed hugely in alien proportions, nobby cornices of opaque ice forming eerie decorations where wall met ceiling. The squadron led them through a few halls and up a staircase which Phil had to quite literally climb, to a throne room.

A giant that Phil could only assume was Gymir lounged on a throne of stone with wood accents. He wore a mantle of furs and wooden bangles in quantities that completely covered his forearms. A thick animal-hide chestplate was adorned with whorls like his skin, and he wore many layers of draped fabric in place of pants. His face was lean like many of the Jotun, with a broad nose and sharp chin. Phil imagined that if he had had much experience with Loki in his Jotun form, the sight would trigger feelings of anxiety and panic, but as it was he only felt fascination and the unfamiliar lift of hope.

Freyr narrowly avoided being knocked to his knees by the expedient means of kneeling as soon as Gymir turned his eyes towards him. The squad leader’s intended shove met only air, and he scowled fiercely. Freyr folded himself double over his knees, head bowed, but did not speak. Phil knew that Freyr and Darcy had briefly discussed Jotun etiquette but he had honestly been too distracted by the passing galaxy to remember much. He got to his knees as well, even though the cold seeped through his pants and his shins began to ache.

“You have gall, coming to my hall after your underling’s insults. I will strip the skin from your frame and had it made to gloves for my dearest daughter. Why do you come here?” Phil glanced up at Gymir. He was angry, yes, but a lot of his statement had the air of ritualized bluster. Phil doubted that the Jotun Kingling would want to torture and execute the brother of Asgard’s ruling royalty.

Freyr saw his chance to make his statement and took it. “Lord Gymir, I beg your forgiveness for my vassal has done you and your people a great wrong in my name. He implied that your daughter could be bought like chattel, and that she would no doubt be overjoyed to escape your foul, desolate realm with any who would take her. He tried to force your hand to my will with threats and coercion.”

Gymir’s expression grew darker and more threatening as Freyr laid out Skirnir’s follies. Phil assumed this was some sort of ritualized apology, as Freyr seemed unperturbed by Gymir’s increasingly dire countenance. “My Lord, I come to you in supplication, acknowledging my wrongs and asking what I might do to repair my character in your eyes. Your daughter is the finest woman I have ever seen and to hear her speak and sing sets my spirit soaring. Verily, I could not imagine another finer being to rule at my side.” Freyr’s voice had taken on a sonorous cadence as though he was reciting an epic. “Her wits are sharp and her soul is wise. Her beauty surpasses any I have seen in all my years of travel. When first we met she had taken my breath, and when first we spake she had taken my heart.”

Freyr paused, as though waiting to see if Gymir wished to interrupt him, but Gymir simply stared, burning golden eyes unblinking like the dispassionate regard of distant suns. “You and your kin are deserving of respect, and your lands as well. My time as lord of Alfheimr has ended, but I hope to lend my experience and my connections to the aid of your kingdom and this world. There is much that can be done for the Jotun people both in expanding trade and opening ways of learning. I know your lands are rich with the strength of your people and I have come to beg the chance to help your daughter in the tilling.”

The interior of the hall was just above freezing, and between the rise in air temperature and internal body heat, the drip drip of water from clothing and armor could be heard from the Jotun squadron and Freyr alike. There was echoing silence.

“Your tongue is liquid gold against your vassal’s,” Gymir said finally. He swung his leg over the arm of his throne and sat upright. “Would that I believed your sweet words and could take your apology. My daughter had spoken well of you before your eel crawled to me and soiled my floors and my ears. I have say in the running of my kingdom but I have no say over the choices of my daughter’s heart. It is she you must convince, for it is she who will rule as I have ruled, once she is married. You may stay in my household, but know, if you displease any here living, your punishment will be swift and final. You will have three days to convince my daughter of your strength of spirit. If she does not want you, and you have not left by that time, you will be thrown from my lands and at the mercy of those who would see revenge for the harm visited upon Jotunheim at your peoples’ hand.”

“So it will be,” Freyr agreed. He stood, stamping feeling back into his feet. Phil did the same, his pants now soaked through and the cloak no longer doing nearly as much as he would like towards keeping him warm. Phil started to stumble forward to plead his case to Gymir, but Freyr’s hand stopped him. “Bide. There is yet time and it is perhaps best to distance your request from mine own lest the taint of Skirnir’s insults flavor his tongue upon reply.”

“This can’t wait too long,” Phil insisted.

“Nay, it will not. But trust me in this: bide.”


	33. Chapter 33

The thermal pools steamed gently under the wan light of Jotunheim's noon. The first hint of warmth that Darcy had experienced since landing on the harsh planet wafted towards her along with the strong smell of sulphur and minerals. Barton padded through the field of ice crystals with occasional discontented merps. She crunched unapologetically. The sound of voices wafted on a moist breeze. Barton hissed a warning, but it was not enough time for Darcy to do more than startle. A Jotun warrior wielding a long spear rose from his crouched position, almost indistinguishable against the grey blue landscape, to block their path. He was ten feet tall, with midnight blue skin powdered with frost. Ridges emphasized the harsh bone structure of his face, and a thick mane of black hair was braided with bones and shells. His command was harsh, his voice like the grating creak of glaciers.

Darcy dropped to her knees, palms on her thighs, head bowed. Barton puffed and hissed in protective outrage, attempting to draw the alien's ire from Darcy. "I come as emissary to speak with Princess Gerd." The warrior did not appear to understand Darcy. "Gerd. _Gerd_ ," Darcy repeated with more urgency. The warrior cocked his head, red, critical eyes narrowing at her. He made a harsh whistling noise, and another Jotun appeared. This one was small—only as tall as Darcy—and wore a thick white shift. He said something, repeating “Gerd” several times, and nodded his head without looking away from Darcy and Barton. The child ran off.

“Well this is awkward,” Darcy murmured to her knees. Barton swished his tail and minced back and forth in the ice while they waited. The cold had begun creeping up Darcy’s thighs by the time the child returned with a giantess.

A Jotun woman arrived, glimmering with ice droplets forming over her skin as the water of the spring froze onto her. She wore a clout cloth and little else.

"What are you?" she asked critically, frowning down at Darcy and then Barton.

Barton meowed his response which only seemed to confuse her.

"We're Midgardians. We come as an emissary to speak with the Princess Gerd on behalf of the Lord Freyr."

The Jotun woman's expression darkened. "We will have no more of his insects. If you do not leave I will have you frozen into pillars of ice and displayed at the gates of Gymir's great hall as warning to the impertinent Vanir."

Barton hissed. "You shut it," Darcy told him sternly. She bowed her head lower, almost touching the frozen ground. "Your giantessness, please. I'm coming to speak woman to woman with Gerd. Freyr screwed it up royally sending that douchecanoe to speak for him, and he just wants to express an apology and see if things can get worked out. My companion and I pose no threat to you or your people." She glanced up at the giantess. "Please?" she added.

The giantess glared down at Darcy, her hair freezing into an icy mane. "You would speak for that worm of a lordling?"

"Yup."

The giantess nodded, but breathed out as though she would much rather freeze Darcy into a pillar of ice. "Come," she commanded.

Darcy rose. The warrior crouched out of her way, once more blending seamlessly into the harsh landscape. Darcy edged around him nervously, while Barton minced, still ready for a fight he would not win.

The giantess led them down a path to the hot springs. Seven or eight giantesses were in the spring, utterly naked, tending long rows of a cultivated water plant. The plants grew huge and spiky in canals of gently steaming water. They stopped when they saw the giantess, growing quiet and still.

"These outsiders come to speak with you, Princess."

The Jotun women all cast assessing looks at Darcy and then Barton. One rose out of the water, and nodded at Darcy. "We will speak in the pools." She moved from the cultivated area through a small lock, and into a wide deep pool, gesturing with her head for the other giantess to join the other women. "You will join me in the pool," she commanded. Barton touched the water with a paw and mrred unhappily. "Do as you will, creature. I do not speak to you," the Jotun replied. Darcy looked at the water and at her own down jacket, seeming to debate several modes of action. Finally she tore off her down jacket, dropping it in a dry spot, stripped completely except for her knitted hat, and plunged into the spring water with a shriek. Barton burrowed into her down jacket and sighed happily.

The water was warm, and felt burning hot after the burning cold of the air. Darcy sighed and sank up to her neck in the warmth. “I am Gerd,” the Jotun introduced herself.

“Darcy Lewis,” Darcy replied promptly.

“You may speak your piece.”

Darcy glanced at Clint. She hadn’t really anticipated doing naked-in-a-pool ambassadorizing. This was certainly considerably different from how she imagined her first envoy mission going. Gerd was beautiful. She was about ten feet tall, varying shades of indigo, and possessed of a quiet confidence. The rough ridges that seemed to mark all frost giants served to emphasize her eyes and swirl in enchanting patterns across her bared skin. Her eyes were like the suns of distant planets, glowing like embers, and weighted with wisdom and age.

“Can I speak plainly?” Darcy asked.

“If you do not I will let Lyrda enact her threats upon you,” Gerd replied calmly.

Darcy gulped. “OK, look. Freyr shouldn’t have sent that guy to speak for him, and Skirnir acted like a total dick and he shouldn’t have said any of what he did because that was total asshole blackmail shit.” Gerd frowned as though she was unused to “speaking plainly” containing so much profanity. Clint meowed an agreement. “Yeah, so like, Freyr is actually, legitimately super sorry about that. He made a mistake, and Skirnir is getting the full force of a Vanir boot in the ass over this.”

“These are Freyr’s words?”

“Not quite. His actual words were ‘convey to the princess my deepest and most sincere apologies and let her know that such threats and uncouthness would never spill from my own lips, nor would I require such things of any maiden against threats to her family.’” Darcy affected a deep voice when repeating the words. Clint smirked a cat smirk and snuffled a cat chuckle from within her down coat.

Gerd’s stern expression softened infinitesimally. “That sounds more like the one I know,” Gerd acceded.

“Yeah, so first things first, he’s totally sorry, and he’ll do his best to make sure that shit doesn’t happen again, and he’s sorry again. He totally understands why you’d never want to talk to him again but he’s totally desperate for you. That dude has it bad.”

“What does he have?” she asked.

“LOVE, girl. It was all ‘Gerd this’ and ‘I bet the princess would’ and stuff. Look, I am the first to admit I’m terrible at _my_ relationships, but I’m great when I’m not involved. That man has been bit by the love bug for _you_ and he’s totally willing to do what he’s gotta to do to prove he’d treat you right and all that.”

Gerd scowled. “He has betrayed a trust with me and my family. It is not something to be so easily forgiven, no matter my feelings for him. I am not some simple prize to be won by a few pleasing deeds. Our households are to be joined and with it our peoples. Nice feelings will not sustain us through the hard times ahead.”

“Truth. Preach it sister. But like... I can’t tell you what to do. I can tell you that Freyr is the first Asgardian I’ve talked to who didn’t think of the frost giants as some mindless horde of violent beasts. He totally respects your people, and he wants good things to come from this as much as he wants to do them with you.” Gerd’s expression softened into an almost dreamy aspect. “He’s one of the good guys. He’s one of the people who tells me that he’s gonna change the nine realms and I actually believe that big lug. Odin’s a huge bag of dicks, and I’ll say the same thing about a lot of the Asgard I’ve heard about, but Freyr, man... If you’ve got the same passions, I can’t see how this could be bad.”

“Freyr is a man of honor,” she replied after some contemplation.

“Totally,” Darcy affirmed.

“I would require some act to show he has repented and that his intentions are peaceful.”

“Okay.” Darcy splashed the water up her neck a bit. “What did you have mind?”

“I must think on it. I had not thought to do more than pull his head from his body over Skirnir’s impertinence, but if he comes in genuine apology I must consider what would be adequate.”

Darcy scooted around in the spring. The rocks that made up the bottom were slick with moss, and there were hot currents coming from the far end of the pool. She felt around until she found one that was the right depth to sit on while keeping her head out of the water. Her nose was cold in the crisp air, but the rest of her was deliciously warm.

“Freyr wields a blade known as Laevateinn. If he will give this sword into my keeping while we are married, I will agree to the union. I will not use it, nor give it to others to make war, nor will I forbid him to bear another blade. If he will agree to this, he has my answer.” Gerd nodded decisively.

Darcy thought about it. She imagined what would happen if Thor was asked to put down Mew-Mew to be with Jane, and she imagined the answer would probably be the same: a thousand times yes.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him, but I think that can be arranged.”

Gerd’s face broke into a bright smile, made terrifying as well as charming by her sharp teeth. “You think he will agree to this?”

“I know what his nephew would say, so I think I got a handle on Freyr.” Darcy looked at the shore. “Do you have a towel I could borrow? I think my nipples will freeze off if I try to walk to the hall without drying off.”


	34. Chapter 34

Darcy and Clint joined Phil and Freyr in the chambers given to them. They were small, a feature which Phil was unsure translated to a luxury due to the increase in heating potential, or a snub. There was a small furnace that almost made the temperature bearable, a window made of particularly clear ice, and three pallets with blankets and furs.

Darcy was preceded by an imposing Jotun woman who glared suspiciously at Phil and Freyr. She directed a dubious look at Darcy as though asking if she really planned to be quartered with these idiots. “Yeah, these guys are mine,” she replied with a smile. “Thanks for this by the way.” She shook out a large blanket and offered it up to the giantess who cast one last suspicious look at Freyr before taking the blanket and leaving them alone.

“So, nobody was torn limb from limb and ground into bread, so I’ll take that as a good sign. What’s the dealio?”

“Gymir has given me three days to make amends with the Lady Gerd and to secure her assent that we be wed,” Freyr replied succinctly. “How fared you?”

“I think I got you an in, dude. Gerd seems willing to forgive, but you gotta do something big to prove you’re more plowshares than rape and pillage.”

“Name it,” Freyr demanded, yearning in his voice.

“You’ve got to give Laevateinn to her to keep for as long as you’re married. She says it won’t get used and she won’t give it away, but that a big sacrifice is necessary to show you’re serious.”

Freyr’s eyebrows gathered in a troubled expression. He glanced down at his sword which had been returned with stern warnings that they were not to be armed outside their quarters. “She asks too much.”

“Seriously?” Darcy asked, obviously preparing for a fight.

“Laevateinn is my greatest weapon. I would use it only to fight for the glory and honor of our people.”

“Dude, I think the whole point is—” Darcy’s voice was rising from mildly vexed to an outright bitch-out session, and Phil glanced at her warningly. Darcy bit off her sentence and took a breath.

“I believe what Ms. Lewis is saying is that you have been saying you wish diplomacy and trade, and that war is the farthest thing from your mind in this marriage. This sacrifice would do a lot towards proving that.”

“She implies that I would make war upon her peoples? That I would threaten them with my own sword? How could she think thus? We have spoken on such topics and she has seen my heart. That she now mistrusts it is—”

Barton, who up until then had been principally occupied with attempting to fluff and dry his fur, yeowled, long and harsh, interrupting Freyr. He continued a monologue in yelps, chirrups, sarcastic burrs, and a variety of noises Phil was unsure he had ever heard come out of a cat. His statement continued for nearly two full minutes, bulling through Freyr’s repeated attempts at interjection, ending with an emphatic pounce. It was the longest that Phil had seen Barton talk in any form outside of oral debriefs, ever.

Freyr stood, stunned. “You think this to be the truth?” he asked. Barton murred an agreement and stamped again. “Verily? I must think on this.” Freyr sat on a pallet and removed his boots with an air of great contemplation. Phil and Darcy exchanged a look, unsure what they were supposed to do in this strange world.

\--

Luckily, the Jotun didn’t seem to like leaving a woman alone with Freyr. When he was ready to communicate his decision, the giantess who had escorted Darcy was on watch along with a guard from the squadron, and she could be sent with messages provided Darcy accompanied her. The giantess had enough understanding of the Allspeak that she seemed to pick up what Darcy was saying, but was unable to communicate in anything Darcy could understand. Nevertheless, Darcy kept up a steady chatter, commenting on the ingenuity of the windows, various design elements, and anything else she could think of that was remotely complimentary.

The giantess largely was silent, but would occasionally make an inscrutable comment to something Darcy had said. She led Darcy to a chamber similar to the one she had left, and knocked. “Come,” a voice commanded. Her guide gestured that she should enter.

Darcy bobbed a bow upon entering. “Name yourself,” the same voice commanded.

“Darcy Lewis,” Darcy replied quickly.

“Bear you no affiliation? No allegiance?”

“Well, I mean, I’m from Earth, so I’m kinda on Earth’s side of things. And I work for SHIELD so my bank balance bears them some allegiance at least. And I pledged allegiance enough as a kid to the US, so them too. Mostly I’m just out for myself, though,” she concluded, glancing up and then consciously keeping her mouth from falling open.

The Jotun harumphed. “I am Gymir. Suder says you bring a message from the Vanir mud that seeks to bed my daughter.”

Gymir had removed armor, and was dressed in only a tunic and long skirt. Gymir had most definitely not fathered anybody. “You’re a woman,” Darcy burst out before she could rein in her tongue.

Gymir blinked her ember eyes slowly, clearly saying she thought of Darcy as less than a threat and generally below her consideration. “I am a female,” Gymir conceded. “To Jotun, when the days of fathering children are complete, the divide between man and woman narrows to nothing.”

“But you like, run this outfit? You’re the lord of the land?” Gymir nodded regally, for the first time betraying a hint of amusement. “Dude, that is so totally badass! There’s no like, fairer sex bullshit here?”

Gymir pursed her lips in thought, toying with a knife. “The rule of this land is my blood right, earned and won. There are those who thought it a prize beyond me but it is one I clutched and held close. I am lord and father to my people; under my guidance they have survived where other halls have gone barren and dead. Gerd will continue my legacy when I must stand down from the throne. Is it not the same in Midgard?”

Darcy made a see-saw gesture with her hand, “It’s complicated. I could totally catch you up on like, three thousand years of Midgardian feminism but I’m mostly here about Freyr’s broken heart, so...”

Gymir snorted. “Speak.”

“Gerd said she still totally digs Freyr and if he’ll give up Laevateinn, she’s down to get hitched.” Gymir frowned, Allspeak and colloquialisms going to war for a moment. “Freyr says he’ll totally do that for love and all that jazz.”

“You say he agrees to her terms?” Darcy nodded enthusiastically.

“Then it is set. I must confirm it with Gerd but if all is well, the wedding will be three days hence. Your party will make preparations here. Heimdall will make all known to Freyr’s kin that they might be present for the ceremony.”

“That’s it?” Darcy asked, not quite believing it was that simple.

“That is it. You may have liberty of my hall provided your behavior is temperate. Suder will be at your service for any needs. I warn you, though, do not venture without an escort for my people are unaccustomed to strangers.”

Darcy took that as a dismissal, leaving the audience chamber. 

“So, you’re Suder,” Darcy said to her shadow.

Suder repeated her own name with a sound closer to a ‘th’ than a ‘d’, but nodded. “That’s pretty.” Suder ducked her head as though unaccustomed to compliments. “I’m Darcy.” Darcy held out her hand, waiting until Suder mirrored the gesture. Slowly she moved until their hands were grasped, and shook once. “Nice to meetcha.”

Suder snorted, amused, and repeated, “Darcy,” in a low, thoughtful voice.

They walked back to their chambers in companionable silence. Suder made to stop outside the quarters, but Darcy put her hand on the giantess’ forearm and pulled her in. Freyr made to stand, and Phil did stand. Barton was curled in a pile of blankets, still trying to get warm and dry.

Phil raised his eyebrows at Darcy in question. “So it’s set! Wedding in three days. Make whatever preparations you guys do. This is Suder—she’s here to make sure we don’t get into any trouble.” Suder gave Darcy a cross look, but executed something between a bow and a curtsey. “That’s Freyr—you probably already know him—that one is Coulson, and under the blankets is Clint.” She repeated the names quietly to herself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Phil offered politely.

“So, do you wanna talk about how ‘Lord Gymir’ is totally actually _Lady_ Lord Gymir?” Darcy asked. Her question met stunned silence from both Phil and Freyr. Barton perked, sensing gossip. “Oh my god, you guys seriously didn’t know?”

Phil thought back to his mental image of Gymir and attempted to integrate the new information. It fit; Gymir had presented herself in armor and regalia and though it had been coded neither masculine or feminine, Phil had superimposed his expectations on her clothing. “So Gymir is Gerd’s _mother_?”

“Apparently she’s ‘the lord and father of all on her lands’, but yeah, she’s Gerd’s mother.”

Suder interjected something which none but Freyr could understand. He frowned. “She says that the proper word for Lord Gymir’s title is ‘reeve’ which bears no gender connotation and is indeed a position of duty passed through the magical bloodlines of the Jotun on this land.” Suder added something. “In the custom of their people I would be Gerd’s consort while in Jotunheim and named using her family affiliations.” Freyr smirked as though he found it charming.

“You’re not broken up over taking your wife’s name?” Darcy asked. She’d gotten into a three-day knock-down drag-out fight with an ex over that very issue, which had precipitated the end of their relationship. She was surprised Freyr seemed to be accepting it so readily.

“Nay! To be welcomed as one of her family was my dearest wish. When we travel the nine realms she will be known by my family affiliation so it seems only just that it is so while amongst her kith.”

“That’s... really kind of progressive of you,” Darcy replied.

Freyr smiled, and it was like the sunrise.


	35. Chapter 35

After what had been a stressful day _before_ walking probably eight miles over rough terrain in below freezing temperatures, Phil took his shoes off, set his socks and pants to dry by the small coal stove, and passed out on a pallet. He woke once when Barton burrowed next to him, warm and purring, to cuddle under his blankets.

He woke in what he assumed to be the dim light of early dawn. Indigo skies glowed against the blackness, through icy window panes. The embers slowly crackled. He rose and donned his warmed, dry clothing, noting Freyr’s pallet was empty as was Darcy’s. Barton burred and stretched contentedly in the warm spot he’d left in the blankets. “Do you know where they went to?” Barton was normally a frustratingly light sleeper, but his time as a cat had evened out that tendency. Barton chirruped a negative.

Phil wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and went to the window. Cold air flowed off of the ice sheet like a living thing, smoothing across his cheeks and nose and snaking into the fine hair at his temples. Outside, Gymir’s kingdom stretched for grey-blue miles. The nearest cultivated lands were in a huge basin, all roads flowing towards the central hall. Farther out, a few glowing lights of homesteads or the mouths of mines in the rising mountains glimmered like crystals reflecting moonlight. Steam rose from the farmed thermal pools creating a haze of mist that glowed with the rising of Jotunheim’s white dwarf sun.

The idea that he was on an alien world was still utterly fantastical. “Did you ever think you’d be on another planet in outer space?” Phil asked Barton. He made a disgruntled noise in response. _I wish I wasn’t now_ the noise suggested.

There was a knock at the door, and Darcy entered before Phil could answer. Suder was close behind her, carrying a tray filled with food. They were chatting away, though Suder’s Allspeak-aided English was still largely incomprehensible to Phil and presumably Darcy.

“Breakfast!” Darcy announced. The tray was constructed of sheet rock and metal, and had legs which swung down to make it into a low table. “We went through the kitchen and we’re pretty sure none of this stuff is poison to humans. Or cats. Did you know Jotun can eat petroleum products? Which by the way, if it smells like lighter fluid it might be so don’t just assume it’s the extra hard liquor.”

Suder knelt at the table and gestured for them to join her while saying something to Darcy.

“Can you understand her?” Phil asked, curious. Barton stalked out from his blanket nest and rubbed against first Phil, then Darcy. He sniffed at the tray, placing his paws on an edge for a closer look.

“Naaw. Mostly I just do with her like I do with Clint. But ‘da’ means yes and ‘nyet’ means no.”

“That’s just Russian,” Phil replied, chiding.

“Yeah. I think her Allspeak is a bit scrambled or out of practice or something. I mean, hey, she got an Earth language at least.”

Barton dropped his paws from the tray and wove around to sniff at Suder. She looked down at him curiously. Her hand was nearly as large as his torso, but she held it out delicately, fingers offered for a smell. Barton obliged, and apparently liking what he smelled, rubbed his cheek against her hand.

“He likes getting scratched under the chin,” Darcy informed Suder. She obliged Barton, rubbing gently under his chin with a single fingertip. Barton purred. “Aaw. New friend.”

They ate, conversing without a whole lot of understanding. Over tea thick with minerals they shared companionable silence. Suder and Darcy eventually went to return the tray to the kitchens.

And Phil grew restless. Freyr was not returning, and there was nothing for him to do. Barton prowled the edges of the room, sniffing every corner, and then settled down to nap again. Barton had always been superior at waiting for the right moment. Phil could and did wait, but patience was not something he had ever been particularly good at, even before being forced into the body of a child.

Phil was waiting when Darcy and Suder returned. “I came here to speak to Gymir to see if he— she— could help Barton and me. Freyr suggested I wait until after his problem had been dealt with and I agreed, but if there is or is not a solution to our problem, I’d prefer to know it now.”

Suder replied in a doubtful tone.

“Can you see if we could set up an audience?” Phil asked. Suder made another doubtful reply.

“Come on. You and the Princess are like, bros. Sisters. Something. Clint and Phil totally deserve whatever help they can get, and they certainly deserve the chance to ask, even if they don’t get it.”

Suder’s reply seemed to be, “I’ll see what I can do.” She gestured for them to stay put, and then, meeting Darcy’s eye, gestured for her specifically to stay put. Suder left. Barton smirked a cat smirk and mouthed something sarcastic. “Quiet you,” Darcy said.

\--

Suder did get them an audience with Gymir later that evening. Freyr had put them in a bad mood quite unintentionally by returning to their quarters, wet but glowing with pleasure, to relate how well his court of Gerd was going and how willing a woman she was. Darcy was cross from being cooped up in one room with nothing to do and only one-sided conversation to occupy her faculties. Barton and Phil for their part were tired of listening to one-sided conversations. That Freyr had spent the day galloping about the countryside, even the desolate, freezing countryside, and wooing a beautiful woman only served to make their day in feel more like imprisonment.

Phil and Barton both went to the audience, held in the same chamber Darcy had visited earlier. A table was set with dinner foods and drink, and Gymir gestured for Phil to avail himself. Barton leapt to the table to examine the offerings.

“Keep your creature off my board,” Gymir warned casually.

“He’s not my creature. Barton is my asset.” At Gymir’s confused expression, “My vassal. He has been trapped in the form of this creature.” Phil mentally face-palmed; the Asgardians were rubbing off on his language patterns.

“So he is—was—a man?” Gymir asked.

Phil nodded. “And I was an adult, fully grown,” Phil added. “We were caught in the blast of a magical explosion aimed at another, and suffered this backlash.”

Gymir hmmed.

“Why do you think I can do anything to lift your curse?” Gymir asked.

“Freyr has told us that if there is anybody in the nine realms who could find a Jotun sorcerer with skill enough to undo the magics on us, it would be you. Would you do us the honor of trying?”

Gymir breathed in and out audibly, and rolled her eyes in indecision. “Very well. I will touch your magic and see if my skills are strength enough to unwind the binds that tether you.”

Gymir gestured Phil forward and lay one calloused, hardened palm on his head. Barton merped in concern. Phil felt a queasiness roil through his stomach, and a burning in his lungs. Gymir removed her hand with a sour look. “This is beyond my skill, and I fear beyond the skill of any in my realm. The magic has gone deep and become twisted into the words that made you. This is the stuff of creation itself and I will not risk tampering lest I undo you to your smallest element. Would that I could help one who speaks so nobly for another, but there is naught I will do for you.”

Barton drooped with a hopeless sound. Phil dropped his head in acceptance. “I appreciate your cooperation. Even if you can’t do— I appreciate the effort,” Phil finished, trying hard to hold back the choked sound in his own voice.

The night passed slowly, but in a haze. He tried to sleep but only dozed, and Barton woke him several times with nightmares. They were at the end of their respective lines, and there was nothing more that Phil could think of to do. There would be no hail Mary save. There was no emergency surgery and blood transfusions which could fend off this specter. They were stuck.

Darcy cast him looks all morning, having guessed he hadn’t slept, and finally Suder and Darcy coaxed Phil and Clint out on a walk. They planted the desolate pair of them on a hillside overlooking the landscape and went to climb to the top of a stone chimney high above where Phil and Clint had lost interest in the exercise.

“This kinda looks like I remember Afghanistan,” Phil commented. The colors were different, but the harsh, testing beauty of it was the same. The skies were just as clear, with the smell of killing frost in the air. Phil picked up a pebble and tossed it off the side of the hill, listening it to it skitter and tumble, loosening tiny herds of stampeding scree until the pebble’s descent sounded like the rushing of far-off water.

Barton voiced something pessimistic and batted his own pebble off the edge, perking only for the moment in which he could watch it fly.

Darcy clambered back to them and they all shared a thermos of broth in silence. “So Suder was telling me something cool while we were up on the ridgeline.”

“Hmm?” Phil asked, only mildly interested through a malaise of depression.

“You tell them,” Darcy told Suder.

In an impressive bit of pantomime interspersed with a few Russian and English words, she told them about a party that would take place that night, introducing Freyr to the small holders under Gymir’s vassalage and celebrating the upcoming wedding. According to the pantomime, there would be storytelling, dancing, fighting, an abundant food and drink.

“Wasn’t that amazing?” Darcy asked, eyes alight. “I think her Allspeak is getting tuned up with practice.” Suder grinned her sharp, white grin and put a hand on Darcy’s shoulder in a show of pleased companionship.


	36. Chapter 36

The thing Suder had not included in her pantomime was that the party that night served as a joint bachelor/bachelorette party. The throne room was converted into a massive feast hall with stone trestles which must have weighed two tons each. Oil lamps hung in precarious clusters over the tables piled high with food and drink.

Gymir sat at the head table with her closest advisors, once again in what Phil had come to think of as her receiving armor. She ruled over the proceedings like a negligent parent; sporadically shouting down rowdiness, encouraging some group to greater fits of intoxicated antics, or quieting the room to listen to the telling of a tale.

Gerd and Freyr were seated at opposite ends of the hall, and were being plied with men, women, and drink during their last big party before wedded bliss. Phil didn’t have the heart for a party, and he didn’t have the stomach for a feast, so he mostly just sat with Barton in an overwhelmed stupor of exhaustion and lingering shock. He still had not moved on to acceptance of his situation, or even to anger.

Many of the Jotun present were from bastard bloodline offshoots of the reeve’s line, and had thus studied the Allspeak. Some of the tales were bloody. Some were simply baudy or obviously tuned towards humor. A tale of cattle theft, near as Phil could tell, ended, and one of the storyteller’s companions in a fit of hyperbole, challenged, “Who among you would have a better tale of daring?”

Barton shot a look that Phil well recognized. It was the look he gave Phil right before jumping off of something. It was the look he had before dropping and crushing his earpiece, and allowing himself to be captured in order to get necessary information. “Don’t—” Phil managed before Barton stood and leapt to the table, out of the range of his grasp.

Barton let out an unearthly howl which brought the entire hall to silence. He puffed to his full size, stood his front paws on an overturned bowl for height, and began speaking.

Darcy pulled out her phone and began filming almost immediately. “I have no idea what is going on but this is priceless gold,” she told Phil under her breath. From the first utterance, the entire hall was entranced. He strutted up and down the length of the trestle, bobbing his head and obviously impersonating various characters in the story.

There was a period of setup followed by a brief flurry of action, where he appeared to act out both sides of a fight, ending with him playing “dead” on a Jotun’s emptied plate, legs splayed in a senseless sprawl. The story continued. He leapt from trestle to trestle, weaving down amongst the benches and legs and popping up in unexpected places. He described tussle after tussle, throwing himself into playing dead time after time as the hero of his story felled enemies. He neatly eviscerated a dumpling enemy, and went into a barrel roll with some sort of small bird carcass, tearing it to shreds to shouts of encouragement from those assembled who understood him.

He related what looked like another conversation, before running down the length of a table, and scrambling up the bare shoulder of a Jotun to leap from his hairless head and grasp onto one of the huge metal lamps suspended above the feast.

He made some comment while hanging, and dropped into Freyr’s arms, waiting below him to cushion the fall. Not slowed in the least, he continued a madcap sprint around the hall, narrating his movements as he ran. In what Phil assumed was the crescendo of action, he mounted the carcass of a huge beast that had been roasted whole, and almost conversationally, finished the story in the silence of the great hall.

A roar like the sound of an avalanche burst from the assembled Jotun throats. Darcy clicked “stop record” and “save.” “I have no idea what that was, but that was amazing.”

Barton picked his way off the carcass and preened for a moment before returning to his seat.

Gymir’s lips curved into a terrifying grin. “You speak of the defeat of the weakling Loki well. This Black Widow seems a formidable warrior. I wish her present at the wedding for you spoke so well on her behalf.”

Everyone was staring at Barton and Phil now. Whereas they had been a particularly uninteresting sideshow to the main event, they were now guests favored most highly. “I’m unsure if she will get leave to depart our realm,” Phil replied. “Even we only traveled here from desperation, and may face reprimand upon our return.”

“Why come you hence?” a lordling asked. “Surely ‘twould have been safer to stay within your warm beds and walls. Soft pink things such as you do not survive long in a true survivor’s land.”

“We were desperate,” Phil admitted. “A magic tainted with that of the Jotun, but crafted from the skills of many within the nine realms has trapped my companion and myself. We hoped that Gymir could direct us to one who would work with emissaries from the Norn and the Aesir to see us put to rights, but regretfully—”

Gymir cursed under her breath and said something too quietly for Phil to hear it towards the rear of the hall.

Freyr began laughing, boisterous and full. “She had thought you came to her because you knew no other sorcerous race, not because the magics holding you misformed were woven with the thread of Jotun magics.”

Gerd lay a quelling look on Freyr. “Be that the case, there may still be something my reeve might do for you and your companion.”

“The magic is too much for any Jotun sorcerer to meddle in, but if the Norn will guide our strength, it may be possible,” Gymir added thoughtfully. “How come you to be owed a favor by the Norn?”

“It’s not our favor,” Darcy put in.

“I believe that Queen Freya made the request on our behalf, and that she expected it would be granted.”

Gymir nodded thoughtfully. “Be that the case then we must find the well from which the Jotun magic in you has sprung. But not tonight. Tonight we celebrate.”


	37. Chapter 37

The morning after the party, the hall was littered with Jotun warriors and lordlings passed out and, in some cases, snoring. It was gratifying to see that even frost giants were not immune to the effects of hangovers. Darcy had put an incredibly intoxicated Suder to bed on her own pallet, and curled up next to the giantess for warmth. This was apparently a common Jotun bachelor party occurrence. When Phil and Barton had left, Freyr had been goading any Jotun who thought himself worthy to please his would-be wife in a manner superior to any he would manage after the wedding. Gerd was giving commands to those Jotun who wanted to try their luck while she was still unmarried.

Gymir herself knocked on their chamber door and entered. She spared an amused look for Darcy and Suder, pink and indigo cuddled together for drunken comfort, but zeroed in on Phil.

“I must pull a bit of the Jotun magic from you if I am to trace its origins. It may hurt.” Phil nodded his assent. Barton murmured unhappily. Gymir placed her palms on Phil’s head, and the same stirring nauseous feeling began boiling in his stomach. She ran her palms down his arms, settled them on his hips and then his belly. She finally moved to his chest, zeroing in on almost the exact spot Loki had speared him. With a sharp thumb nail, she stabbed into the spot.

He cried out, and Barton leapt to his defense, spitting and hissing. She held him off with a single hand, pinning him to the floor of the chamber while he growled and hissed. “I’m fine,” Phil managed. It hurt, but it didn’t hurt like metal through his chest had hurt. Gymir glanced at Barton before letting him up. She pulled a handkerchief made of the whole skin of a small animal and placed it over where she had stabbed him with her thumb. Something that was not blood seeped reluctantly from the wound and soaked into the skin.

She smelled it, and extended her long, red tongue to taste the blue-black inky stuff. “There is a familiar taste in this magic.” She wrinkled her nose and bared her teeth in a silent hiss. “This will give us something to track; the hunt will leave at dusk. Be ready in the courtyard if you wish to see this to its conclusion.”

\--

The party assembled in the courtyard at dusk was immense. Darcy and Suder had woken mid day, hungover but good natured about their state. Freyr had not returned from whatever bed he had ended up in the night before. Suder helped find Phil some clothes appropriate for being out for extended periods in the Jotunheim night.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea going out with a bunch of hung over frost giants to hunt down some rogue sorcerer?” Darcy asked.

“No, but I plan to see this to its conclusion. I think even Jotun are familiar with the concept that guests dying while under their roofs is a bad thing.”

“I’m staying here,” Darcy informed him.

“That’s probably for the best. If I never return, give Fury my resignation letter please. It’s on my drive in the ‘correspondence’ file.”

The assembled Jotun parted before Barton and Phil. Barton had made an impression the night before with his performance, and Phil was interesting by association. Gymir was already mounted on a beast composed mostly of forelegs and tail. Shreds of tanned animal skins hung like streamers from her saddle, and she bore a spear longer than she was tall. She sat straight as her weapon, surveying her hunting party with a critical eye. Gerd stood ready beside another of the beasts, as did the remainder of the assembled Jotun.

“We hunt magics,” Gymir announced. “One of our kind has betrayed their blood and sold our magics to cowards and outsiders. We will crack him and suck the marrow from this traitor.”

It felt like the buildup before the Wild Hunt; a sort of feverish madness that would not soon abate. The shrieking cry for blood that met her statement was like wind through canyons. Gymir raised the spear, which seemed to be a signal. Suder appeared at Phil’s side, changed into light armor. She nodded towards the beast next to Gerd. 

Most of the warriors mounted two to a beast, settling into hammock slings that hung down the sides of the creatures behind their powerful forelegs. Gymir settled thusly and then slung Phil to rest on her shoulder where he could grab ahold of some of the saddle to secure himself. Barton climbed Suder and attached himself to a cloth-covered platform probably designed for hunting birds. Gerd slapped the withers of the beast.

A pack of six-legged monkey creatures roiled around Gymir’s beast’s feet, and she called them up to her.

“You okay, Barton?” Phil asked, wrapping his leg around a strap and resettling on Suder’s shoulder. The lean muscle of her arm flexed under his thighs.

Barton merped and tapped a _yes_ , flexing his claws into the fabric of his hunting bed.

Gymir spoke to the pack of creatures under her beast’s feet and waved the scrap of animal skin stained deep blue with magic. The lead monkey climbed Gymir’s beast’s harness and took the scrap, burying its face in it before clambering down and sharing with its brethren. An eerie, yapping call rose up from the pack, and they took off towards the edge of the bowl valley. As one, the beasts surged forward.

The face scarf Phil had been given came in handy almost immediately. Wind too cold to be moist, but with the same seeping frigidity of being slowly soaked in ice water, trickled into Phil’s hood and numbed his ears. At first he was motion sick from the movement of the beast, but that quickly died down as he stared at the spinning heavens. The atmosphere of Jotunheim was crystalline clear, and stars and galaxies danced, the most brightly colored thing in the visual field at night. The yaps of the monkeys came intermittently as they surged forward, blown from his ears by fickle breezes.

The party climbed higher and higher past the ridgeline and into the steep hillsides that made up the foothills of a chain of mountains marching past the horizon. Their mounts were using their huge tails more and more to balance and propel themselves up steep slopes and along scree frozen solid with hoarfrost.

Phil was lulled by the motion and drifted off to sleep for brief periods, the hunt continuing in muddled flashes of landscape and impressions of images so bright and clear it was startling. Suder nudged Phil awake and nodded towards Gerd. “The hounds have caught the scent of blood, and not merely magic. We are close.”

The hunt had progressed deep into the foothills and their mounts were scaling rocky hillsides with grunts of effort. Ahead, Gymir rose up in her stirrups to see ahead as the monkey hounds began yelping in excitement. Several of them were thrown from above with the sound of a Jotun roar of rage. Another few of the hounds were tossed with indignant yelps from a ledge above where Phil’s beast had stopped. Two of the hounds recovered their feet, but one went tumbling down and down with a meaty crunch.

Gymir’s beast surged up the remaining twenty meters and Gerd jumped from her perch to scramble up after. This was some sort of signal; the rest of the warriors dismounted and leaped and climbed their way to the ledge where more shouting, and the muffled rumble and pop of magic emanated. Suder put Phil on her shoulder in an expedient but not terribly dignified carry. Barton yowled and leapt, clinging to Suder’s armor-padded back.

When they could finally see what was going on, most of the action was over. Gymir stood over a frost giant, clawed foot resting on his chest. The sorcerer struggled, more petulant than hoping to escape from his efforts. The lifeless body of one of the hounds was still attached to his leg, teeth sunk deep into his flesh.

“Interloping bitch,” the sorcerer hissed at Gerd.

“You speak to your future reeve; best to mind your tongue lest she rip it from your throat,” Gymir warned almost conversationally.

The sorcerer spit profanity.

The warriors assembled clamored angrily. “You have brought trouble to our realm. Did you sell your knowledge to outsiders that they might sow dissent amongst the nine realms?” Gymir asked.

The sorcerer bared his teeth and snapped them goadingly. His hand searched and found something in a pouch at his side, and the world rocked and spun. He was in the middle of attempting an escape, aided by whatever countermeasure he’d activated, when Gymir leapt bodily on him, feet hitting him low in the back, arms grasping around his throat, and bore him to the ground with a crunch. With no ceremony or warning, Gymir plunged her clawed hand into the sorcerer’s back, uncomfortably close to how Loki had skewered Phil.

Unlike how Loki had skewered Phil, she worked her fingers on the inside of the sorcerer’s chest cavity, twisted her wrist breaking a few more ribs, and pulled out his heart, shreds of lung sticking to the blue-grey muscle. Only decades of training and experience kept Phil from pulling back or retching at the gore. Barton murred unhappily.

Phil blinked, shocked by the outcome of their hunt. The sorcerer’s corpse twitched once. Gerd spit on the body and met Phil’s shocked eyes. “This cur was my mother’s consort’s son. He tried several times to claim bloodright to my holdings. He was a coward and a snake. I am only saddened I did not get right of the kill.”

“Did Gymir know this was who was responsible before we started the hunt?”

Gerd shrugged negligently. Suder said something that made Gerd smirk. “I had been hoping for some excuse to rip his body for quite some time. Gymir merely got it before I did.”

Gymir licked the heart and bared her teeth before putting it in a jar. They loaded the corpse onto one of the beasts, pulling the hound from his leg with a meaty sucking sound.


	38. Chapter 38

On the way back from the hunt Phil fell asleep in the hammock sling they loaded him into. Barton wormed his way into the sling at some point and they kept one another warm through the bitterest part of Jotunheim’s night.

Darcy and Freyr were waiting in the entry of the hall when they returned, no doubt drawn by the pleased yaps of the monkey hounds. Darcy offered a questioning thumbs up, and broke into a huge grin when Phil nodded “yes.” He gestured towards the corpse, and when Darcy followed his gaze, she turned grey. “Euch,” she said. Freyr spared a chiding look for Phil, but could not hold back his pleasure.

“Come, we are heading to the springs to wash in preparation for the arrival of my sister and the parties from Asgard and Midgard,” Freyr informed them. The rest of the day passed in preparation. They spent several pleasant hours at the hot spring, the soaking warmth easing the chill from Phil’s bones. One of the Jotun children, acting as a runner, informed them that the outsiders had begun arriving.

Phil had never met Freya before, but he immediately fell in awe of her. Freyr grinned as though he was so proud of his sister and her charms that he might burst. He and Darcy took a knee at her feet, struck by her majesty and grace. Freyr and Odin exchanged an uneasy greeting, though Thor’s bone-crushing hug and shout of enthusiasm more than made up for his lukewarm reception from his brother-in-law.   
Behind the royal retinue was a host of servants bearing chests and baskets and pulling small hand carts filled with wedding gifts. Asgardians were serious about weddings. The Jotun and the Asgard eyed one another up as though they were unsure if a battle or a receiving line would break out. Freyr waded into the crowd of Jotun, coming out with Gerd, an arm slung around her waist.

“Sister, this is the fair Gerd. Is she not the most beautiful creature to grace the nine realms? I speak of her beauty for that is so plain to see, but her charm and wit are without bound. Verily to be in her presence is a blessing unto itself of which I hardly find myself worthy.”

Thor looked like he was about to go on a praise-off with his uncle, but Jane, in a rare show of social consciousness, elbowed him in the ribs.

“Truly if the things you have said of her prove true she is a most magnificent woman, and worthy of my brother.” Freya reached her arms towards Gerd, who returned the gesture, clasping forearms and bowing in a very genteel fashion. “It is a blessing on both our houses, and the nine realms, that two such different people could come together in love, especially in these times of strife and painful sacrifice amongst both our peoples. May this be the beginning of prosperity and hope renewed wherever your love may shine.”

Gerd smiled, soft and quiet, and Phil for the first time he saw exactly where Freyr’s hyperbolic declarations over the giantess had come from. The red of her tongue, bitten shyly between white teeth in a wash of inky blue-black, robins egg, and violets on her skin, she had a coy beauty and a seductive wisdom about her. The ridges of her cheeks flushed almost black. “I am pleased Freyr and I could make our hearts clear to one another,” she replied simply.

That seemed to be a signal to both the Jotun and the Aesir that they should make nice. Like flocked to like as body servants carrying chests of clothes found their Jotun counterpart to help them stow their liege’s gear, cooks found cooks, the Jotun exclaiming over the quality of produce and the size of the game, and the guards eyed one another suspiciously.

Freya turned to Darcy and Phil, still close at hand, and gestured for them to rise. Barton sidled up and twined in between Freya’s legs, purring happily. Phil had read somewhere that Freya had a special affinity for cats; perhaps her magic worked even on Barton. “You are the Son of Coul?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am,” Phil replied.

“And Darcy Lewis. Selvig speaks fondly of you.” Darcy blushed and stammered something that might have contained “your majesty.” “And the Hawkeye, if I’m not mistaken?” she finished, crouching down to lavish affection on Barton. He rolled over on his back, baring the softest part of his belly for Freya to run her fingers through. “I believe we are to try to do something for you,” Freya said when she’d had enough tummy fur.

“Yes ma’am. Hopefully.”

Freya nodded. “The Norn arrive in an hour’s time. We shall see about putting you and Hawkeye to rights when all are assembled.” She stood and cupped Phil’s cheek in her palm. “I will do what can be done, and if naught is to be done, we will know that by day’s end. For now, rest. The magics will be tiring enough, and I sense you have been busy already this day.”

\--

Barton meowed unhappily. They were in the center of a circle made up of Norn, Gymir, Freya, and Jane holding an elaborate contraption. Gymir had explained that first they would pull the specks of the energy of creation itself out of Phil and Clint, essentially removing the entropic shrapnel still within them. Combined with some miracle of modern technology, the heart that Gymir had ripped from the living chest of the sorcerer who drew from the well of creation, and the guiding power of the Norn, they would attempt to reshape that entropy and cajole Barton and then Phil’s physical form into their proper shapes.

The Norn were rather terrifying. Smaller than a normal human, they wore cloaks and had gnarled hands. Aside from that the only way to tell them apart was the bangles they wore on their belts, and differences in the ringing quality of their voices. They began to chant, like the ringing of a carillon. Gymir joined the chant, and then Freya. Jane looked uncomfortable.

“Doctor Foster, now,” Gerd told her. Jane braced and activated the contraption, which bore more than a passing resemblance to a Ghostbusters ghost trap. Jane threw the switch on the equipment, and the chanting reached a crescendo.

It felt like skiing through an ice storm. The pings of sharp, bright pain were enough to draw a surprised grunt from him but not enough to force him to his knees. Looking at Barton, he could see specs of darkness the size of gnats being pulled out through his fur and siphoning into Jane’s machinery. It began to make terrible rending, choking noises.

The chanting stopped, the labored grinding of Jane’s machine the only sound. The circle drew closer, centering on Barton, and Phil was pulled from it. Barton yawlped, a familiar noise of pain and fear. Phil tried to move towards him on instinct but Gerd’s strong arms wrapped around his chest stopped him. “They are doing as you asked. The energies are limited and if you interrupt them there will not be near enough to fix both you and Barton. As it is there was less free-floating than they had hoped. Bide.”

Phil planted his feet and clenched his fists with the effort of not moving. The noises from the center of the circle gradually turned more human, until it was a familiar _human_ gasp of pain.

“Barton?”

“Phil?” Barton asked raspily, teeth already beginning to chatter in the cold. Thor rushed forward with a blanket and Sif followed with what looked like the skin of a whole bear, sans head. The circle loosened enough for them to see Barton, naked but pink and non-feline, between the sorcerers.

“Hot damn,” Darcy whispered under her breath, before they got him covered.

Jane’s ghost trap grumbled much more weakly.

“Come, Son of Coul. We must do this quickly. There was less of the stuff to pull free of you than we had hoped. I am unsure if this will be effective with even this small delay.” Freya nodded towards the center of the circle. Phil stripped quickly and entered. He didn’t remember much of what happened after, only being cradled in strong arms, warm and whole.

\--

Phil came back to consciousness in the quarters he had come to think of as “theirs” and flailed, bumping every limb against something. He was the right size again. He was an adult. Even if everything else was wrong, that was so right he almost broke down in tears. Nothing felt right, in the same way that nothing had felt right immediately after being transformed into a child. His skin felt tight, his eyes felt fuzzy, his teeth were slimy and his toes ached. In fact, everything ached. He groaned.

Barton appeared over him, human and grinning. He dove to hug Phil, who barely got out a, “Watch my shoulder—” before he was engulfed in almost two hundred pounds of ecstatic asset. He winced preemptively, but no pain came.

Barton pulled back from the hug, placing a hand on each of Phil’s cheeks and turning his head back and forth like he was examining livestock. “Geeze, Phil, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this good. Seriously, were you like, age-regressed by an uncaring and unknowable alien deity? It’s looking good on you.”

“Screw off, Barton,” Phil murmured, batting Barton’s hands away. He couldn’t remember a time outside of serious, life-threatening injuries that Barton had been this handsy. “What’s the damage?”

“Well, we’ve got the good news, and the ‘you lucky fuck’ news. Which do you want first?”

“Lets take the good news,” Phil sighed. It was too much to ask that it was all good news, but he could use a bit of a pick-me-up before he heard about a near miss with disaster. Instead of responding, Barton began touching his thumb to his fingers in succession and making ungodly word-like sounds. “You’re not a cat anymore,” Phil interpreted.

“Bingo!” Barton crowed. “And the ‘you lucky fuck’ news is they managed to get you forward about 20 years, but not quite back to where you were when you were changed. They said something about running out of the energy of creation and not wanting to ‘burn you out’. So you’re probably mid-thirties, but thanks to that fucking Coulson baby face you look younger than me, you shit.” Barton was smiling like he couldn’t stop if he wanted. He leaned down again and squeezed Phil in another hug. The embrace pulled them both into a quiet moment which stretched long and comfortable. “We’re back,” Barton whispered into the hug.


	39. Chapter 39

The wedding was a confusing mix of cultural references which Phil was unequipped to understand and rituals which had been hastily mashed together by a coalition of Jotun and Vanir priests and priestesses. The ceremony took place in the darkest, coldest, harshest part of night before dawn.

“When there is nothing, you will have each other,” a priestess intoned. “For warmth, for light, for hope in the darkness and the winter. The cold will embrace us all one day, but we embrace each other now, and say ‘not today’.” That seemed to be a signal for everyone to hug their neighbors. 

Darcy buried her face in what had been his bad shoulder. “Glad to have you back, boss,” she murmured.

Sif, to his other side, leaned down for a hug, taking a long moment after the gesture to look him over. “Truly you are a finely-formed man,” she said. “I am... gladdened... to see you returned to your proper form.” She bit her lip and turned back to the ceremony with a huff.

“Oh my god, Sif was just hitting on you,” Darcy whispered at his other side. “Oh my god, everyone gets Aesir nookie but me,” she added.

“I hardly think—” Phil began, turning to glance at Sif only to see her staring pointedly at his ass. Phil, surprising even himself, blushed. She smirked, predatory and gleeful.

Phil spent the rest of the ceremony exchanging slightly disbelieving looks with Sif. He was hardly the best-looking person available, and that she had developed a sudden affection for him now that he was young and pretty was actually a bit insulting.

Darcy elbowed him in the ribs when he voiced that thought under his breath. “No, you dummy. She’s got a thing for wounded warriors. She probably would have been all over your shit before if she wouldn’t have like, given you a heart attack or something.”

“What?” Phil asked, a little strangled, earning him looks of reproof from those around him.

“You totally missed her oogling your ass before, didn’t you? How did you miss that?”

“I saw her eyeing up Barton,” Phil replied doubtfully.

“Yeah, her and every other heterosexual woman on the planet,” Darcy mumbled.

The rest of the ceremony was lost to Phil as Darcy enthusiastically related the joy and wonder that was Sif, to him. Her plus points ranged from her strength, loyalty, and keen warrior spirit to “her frankly godly rack.” Darcy seemed intent upon getting him into bed with Sif if she herself couldn’t seduce the other woman with her filing skills.

The wedding concluded at dawn, making it the second sunrise in two days that Phil had been witness to. A soft snow started almost as soon as the sun rose, and the festivities moved indoors.

\--

The feasting lasted the entire day. There was an ebb and flow to it, but there was always food and there was always drink on the side boards. Huge chests of wooden hair combs, thousands of feet of strong, soft rope, linens and cottons in seemingly endless bolts, and other goods which could not be produced on Jotunheim were gifted to the bride by her groom, but also Gymir, the holders, and the residents of the great hall. Fine handkerchiefs fluttered like lacy flags about the hall, tied in Jotun hair and threaded through ear piercings.

Freyr and Gerd sat just below Gymir at the head table, radiant in their joy. Gerd, a good two feet taller than Freyr at least, sat in his lap and curled about him, whispering things in his ear. Odin and Freya sat to the other side of Gymir, speaking with those who approached, and Gymir.

Phil got caught in a discussion with a Jotun farm holder for nearly an hour, and the topic of the Asgardian crop failures came up. He returned to his spot at the Asgardian table flushed with excited pleasure. “I think I have a solution to the fungal infection your crops are suffering,” Phil told the table. Several Asgardians were too drunk to notice what Phil said, but those who were only mildly intoxicated stopped in their conversations.

“Then tell us!” one of the Aesir urged, waving his arms enthusiastically.

“This is Rodath,” Phil introduced the Jotun he had been speaking with. “He says there is a mineral which Jotun farmers use to resolve similar infections in their fields.”

Rodath bowed his head several times. His face was deeply lined in addition to his scar markings, and his head was bare except for a few horny protuberances.

The Aesir and Vainr glanced among themselves as though trying to decide what they should do: rely on generations of racial prejudice or embrace the being who might hold the key to their peoples’ salvation. 

“Sit! Tell us of this mineral,” Sif said graciously, shooting Phil an impressed look. Rodath looked hesitant, bobbed a few more times, and finally sat, as though concerned it was all a trick. 

Phil was unused to spending an entire day in reveling and drinking, and by the early afternoon he was ready to fall into a relaxed stupor, and did, in a warmer corner of the great hall. He woke to a tickling in his nose, swiping at it. Sif smiled down at him. She had been tickling the tip of his nose with the frond of a rush.

“Do you need something?” he asked.

Sif smirked, dirty and libidinous. “Aye. ‘Tis a wedding. By the Jotun custom all those inclined are to copulate for the greater glory of the wedded couple. It will be the most powerful of fertility charms for those we honor.”

Phil blushed. “I haven’t been in this body for very long. I’m still remembering how it all works.”

“And what better way than with practical application? Come, Philip, Son of Coul, you are a fine warrior and a great leader. We would make a fine night of it.”

“Um...” Phil managed. Sif was in a dress for the first time he could remember, and it clung to her curves like wet cotton. Her bodice presented her breasts to him like perfect fruit, and her thighs were strong straddling him.

“Do not deny me this,” Sif said, “Please.”

She waited until he gave her a nod, and moved in for a kiss. She was surprisingly gentle with her tongue, stroking gently against his lips, and threading her fingers through his hair. He sighed into the contact, deepening the kiss and planting his hands on her hips. Though he hadn’t done this recently, his younger body seemed well versed in how this should go. He pulled her closer until the hot weight of her hips rested over his own groin. She pulled his head back so she could mouth under his jawline and down his throat.

“Uh... maybe we should take this somewhere more private,” Phil suggested. Phil had lost track of Darcy and Clint at some point, but they were fine on their own whatever they were up to.

Sif smirked and glanced around the hall. Unashamed couples were in various states of undress in similar soft, warm locations about the hall while others feasted and sang still. “If it please you. I spoke with Darcy Lewis on Midgardian sexual customs and she gave me these.” Sif held up a handful of condoms, extra thin with lube. Part of Phil desperately wanted to know where, on an alien planet out of contact with Earth for thousands of years, Darcy had gotten condoms, but a larger part of him didn’t honestly care.

“Your place or mine?” Phil asked. Sif grinned, stood in a sinuous motion, and pulled Phil with her by his belt buckle.

“Mine affords privacy I think you will enjoy,” she replied with a smirk.


	40. Chapter 40

Odin and Freya departed the next day along with much of their retinue and a small group of Jotun farmers. If their mineral solution ended up being viable for Asgard, it would open up an entirely new trade between the worlds; agricultural additives for products which could not be grown on Jotunheim. Phil opted for the first rainbow bridge home, having had enough strangeness in his life of late and simply wanting some alone time. Sif gave him a wicked smile and a wave as he prepared for Bifrost travel. Darcy was coming with him, but Barton had asked to stay a day or two.

“I just... want to get back to a baseline before I have to deal with everyone, you know? It’s weird enough being me again. I don’t want to have to deal with them being weird about me being me again too. Ya know?”

“You almost made more sense in meows and adorable whining,” Phil replied with a grin.

“Liar,” Barton replied, pulling him into a hug. “I’ll be back with Jane. I think her and Thor are taking this as a lover’s vacation.”

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Phil asked.

Freyr put an arm around Barton’s neck and squeezed. “Verily! I shall return your Hawk whole and unharmed. Never fear! I thank you again for all your help.” Freyr shook Phil and Darcy’s hands with more force than was necessary. “If ever my aid is needed, call upon me.”

“We will.”

Freyr’s eyes twinkled with delight. “Heimdall, at your leisure.” They were whisked away in the rushing roar of the Bifrost.

\--

“How is it that you get a trip to the fountain of youth and all I get is ulcers and paperwork?” Fury asked sarcastically.

“To be fair, I also got stabbed through the chest, six months of rehab that didn’t really do it for me, and a surprise trip to a potentially hostile alien planet to beg to be fixed. It’s all about balance, sir.”

Fury snorted a chuckle. “Fair enough. How’s Barton adjusting to things?”

“Oh, you know; enjoying the use of his thumbs and eating his weight in bread. He’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

Fury looked him in the eye. “Are you okay, Phil? This all has been a helluva change in not very long at all.”

Phil smiled sadly, thinking about the man he had been, and the emotional space he had inhabited, just a few months prior. “I’m not normal, yet, but I’m okay.” He could see a time in the future when he would be alright.

Fury returned his smile. “Well hell; you’re one lucky-ass son of a bitch.”

Phil looked down on the operations deck of the Helicarrier, buzzing with productive activity. Hill seemed to sense his gaze, and glanced up to give him a nod of acknowledgement. “Yeah, I am.”

\--

Back at “home”, Phil found Barton in the kitchen, a suspiciously familiar knife in use on a side of beef. Though Phil had considered moving out of the Tower, he had eventually decided to stay, simply rearranging many of his personal items and donating the hospital bed to a local hospice so he would never have to see it again. Barton had returned to Earth with a glowing Jane and a relaxed-looking Thor. Barton had looked as languid and worry-free as Phil could remember seeing him in a long time.

“Does Natasha know you’re using her knives for cooking?” Phil asked.

Barton hunched guiltily over what he had been cutting, but relaxed when he saw it was Phil. He shrugged. “What’s a bit more blood?” he asked, turning back to his tenderloin and carving a thin slice from it. He dipped the slice in a bit of hot sauce and popped it into his mouth.

“I’m fairly certain those are usually cooked before eating,” Phil told him.

“Steak tartare,” Barton countered.

“Which you hate.”

“Not any more. Two months on a raw meat diet and it kind of grows on you. Also? I’m not sure they got me quite worked out 100% right. My protein requirements have been through the roof and look at this shit.” Barton twisted as though to crack his back, and got much too much rotation to be healthy. “My tac vest isn’t fitting quite right any more and my draw has been off.”

Phil frowned and moved behind Barton, laying his hand at the base of his skull to feel down his spine. He counted vertebrae as he went, fingers walking down Barton’s back. Barton ignored the attention, cutting himself another slice of meat. “I think you’re right—you came back with a little something extra from our adventure. Go get screened at medical and make sure you don’t have penis barbs or something.” 

Phil marveled at how easy they were with one another. Just a few months ago Barton hadn’t been able to stand being in the same room with him. Now he was submitting to an impromptu physical exam without even token objections. In fact, his time as a small adorable creature seemed to have awakened a repressed desire for physical affection which was only sated by lying on or leaning into anyone “safe” nearby him when given the opportunity.

Phil could practically feel Barton smirk as he counted bony protrusions again to be sure he wasn’t imaging the extra lumbar vertebrae. “I’m good on that front. Checked already.”

\--

They sat in Phil’s office filling out paperwork, as comfortable as they had been since before the Battle of New York. The first step in getting Barton to fill out paperwork was always to print out every single form he would need. The stack was daunting. Phil had printed and collated every one he thought would be necessary.

“Uh,” Barton said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m gonna need an SE-22.”

Phil flipped through his mental rolodex of forms. The blood drained from Phil’s face. “Sexual encounter with a non-human entity? Jesus _Christ_ Barton, are you serious? You’re a cat for what, ten weeks and you—”

Barton’s expression flipped through momentarily confused to a put-on sort of coy. “Well she smelled so good and she was just flaunting it—”

Phil unleashed a string of profanity that would have made Sitwell blush. He visibly calmed himself, taking a few deep breaths. “Do we need to check you for cat herpes?” he asked very seriously

“Fuck, Phil, it was Sif. I had sex with Sif. And unless they have the Nordic God Clap that can punch through the mightiest condom I think I’m good.”

“Oh.” Phil felt abruptly small and silly and petty. “SE-22 it is then.” He sent the form to the printing queue.


	41. Porn Coda: soft R

Sif’s quarters were just down the hall from Phil and Darcy’s and similarly appointed with a pallet, a stove, a wash basin, and little else. She pulled him in by the wrist and pinned him to the wall, kissing him with a fervent passion. Phil’s rational mind kept popping up to say what a bad life choice this was probably going to turn into, but his everything else just kept repeating _yes, yes, yes_. Sif’s hands were calloused and warm, and worked their way into his shirt greedily.

She unbuttoned his dress shirt and of _course_ that was where Darcy had gotten the condoms. Natasha had packed go-bags for both him and Clint, and she must have included supplies. Why Natasha seemed certain one of them was going to be having a sex marathon he was uncertain, but—

“Philip.”

Phil started from his thoughts. Sif had stopped her explorations of his stomach and chest and was staring into his eyes. Her pupils were dilated, but her expression was pure concern. “If I am being too forward say something. I do not mean to coerce you to my bed.”

“No it’s not that. I just realized where you got the condoms.”

She gave him an incredulous look, so he moved into her, pressing his bare skin, gooseflesh rising in the Jotunheim chill, to her chest. He kissed the expression away, allowing his hands free rein to roam from her back, sweeping along the columns of muscle that flexed down her back to her waist, and moved to grasp her buttocks. Phil consciously put away the good sense part of his brain with a stern reprimand. They were both consenting adults, neither of them was in a relationship which could be compromised by a one-night stand, and they were both emotionally mature enough to take the simple pleasure of each other’s physicality without hurting the other. And it felt damned good to be pressed into another willing humanoid.

He tried not to think the word “humanoid” in relation to the woman he was very definitely planning on sleeping with, imminently. They made out like Phil couldn’t remember making out in a long time. The air was sharp and cold and steamy hot. Sif’s dress came off easily enough once he’d gotten her bodice loosened sufficiently. Underneath she was naked, beautiful in her long lines and planes of powerful muscle. They groped their way to near the little coal stove, and they were fiercely warm on one side and frigid cold on the other; the shivers juxtaposed against the warmth was arousing. 

Sif tugged him to her by the trailing edges of his dress shirt and went back to exploring his throat and collarbone with her mouth. He made a strangled, desperate noise when she found a particular point in the hollow of his collarbone that seemed to be directly connected to his dick. She smirked into his skin and bit down until he was thrusting against her leg involuntarily and he no doubt had a blooming love bite. 

He drew her towards the pallet and toppled her with a throw which he only executed because she allowed it. She laughed, full-throated and hearty, and made wonderful sounds as he worked his way across her body with his hands, feeling out every scar and nick and kissing them like the marks of strength they were. When he got to her thighs he was distracted by her dark curls and the scent of her arousal. She spread her knees and planted her feet, angling her hips encouragingly. He parted her curls and ran a finger up and down her labia slowly. She was wet, and by all evidence was formed exactly like a human woman. He parted her outer lips and licked up towards her clitoris. She whined a yes, and pressed into his tongue and fingers.

After the second time Phil tried adjusting his pants, his erection moving from “uncomfortable” to “downright painful”, Sif growled. “Remove that loathsome garment.” Phil glanced up at her over her mound of curls, eyebrow quirked, fingers working inside her. “Damn you for an arrogant fool, I say it not for your benefit,” she groaned.

Phil managed his belt and fly one-handed, but couldn’t get any farther without freeing his hand from where his fingers worked within Sif. She took the opportunity to snatch a condom, ripping open the packaging. By the time Phil returned to the pallet naked, she had nearly reached the point of curiosity of unfurling the rubber. Phil plucked it from her curious fingers and rolled it on with an ease which belied how long it had been since he’d last done just that. “It is as you wish it?” Sif asked, glancing meaningfully at his wrapped dick.

“Not quite,” he replied with an amused smirk. “I’m not inside you yet.”

“Then come to me and make it so,” Sif offered, opening her arms. He went to her willingly, and in a dizzying disorienting moment, she switched their positions so she was atop him, generous breasts and dark nipples swinging in his face. She straddled him, rubbed the head of his dick over her entrance, and sank slowly onto him.

She felt amazing. Everything felt amazing. His nerves were on fire and alight, and all at once Phil remembered why people had sex at all. This was the very essence of sex; the smell of skin and arousal, and the heady drunk feeling of melding with another person. He rocked up into her, and she rolled her hips to meet his thrust. He didn’t worry about his shoulder. He didn’t worry about his inadequacies. He didn’t worry about the future, existing in the moment of pleasure and sensation.

Sif was very serious about her offer to help him relearn his body, and they wrestled and grappled, searched out erogenous zones on each other, and worked through a significant portion of the handful of condoms which Sif had originally presented to him. When they grew hungry they rejoined the feasting and drinking, and when Sif’s hands began wandering they returned to her bedroom. Eventually he and Sif both passed out, coitally exhausted and both more than a bit chafed.

When they woke the next morning, Sif was sprawled like a starfish over the pallet and Phil was nearly rolled off the side. He poked her until she moved over enough that he could huddle under the furs once more, gathering the strength of will to face the frigid day. Sif grinned and stretched. “If that performance has not knocked at the dwelling of the Jotun fertility gods, I know naught that will. If ever you find yourself in need of a night’s pleasant respites, call upon me.”

Phil dressed and managed the walk back to his quarters without running into anyone other than a few hungover but pleased-looking Jotun. Their quarters were completely empty, leaving Phil to wonder who his compatriots had bedded down with for the night.


	42. Porn Coda: hard R

Clint got uproariously, unreasonably, unnecessarily drunk the night of the wedding. Part of it he blamed on Darcy. Part of it he blamed on the alien spirits which he had still not learned to respect. Part of it he knew was his own poor relationships with the boundaries of reasonable and healthy behavior. He didn't remember much of the last half of the day beyond he was pretty sure he threw up at some point, and he spent a good portion of the night singing some kind of drinking songs with a group of equally ebullient frost giants. At some point he had appropriated a few of the blankets strewn about the hall, and one of the whole animal skins, and found an appropriate nest to bed down in.

Clint sometimes doubted the good sense of Drunk Clint. Morning was such a time; how he had, in his grossly intoxicated state, managed to drag what seemed like hundreds of pounds of bedding literally into the rafters of a feasting hall which was considered extravagantly large even for twelve-foot beings, was an alarming mystery. Regardless, he was warm within his nest, he was reasonably functional, and he had an excellent view of the antics of hungover wedding attendees discovering who they had slept with the night before. He would worry about how to get back _out_ of his nest in a few hours.

He warmed himself up with a bit of stretching, and found a bowl of cold something that he’d apparently brought up with him as a drunk snack the night before to calm his tummy. By the time the wedding retinue was assembling to bid farewell to the Asgardian visitors, he had determined a relatively safe route down.

He sent off Darcy and Phil cheerfully enough, feeling a sort of melancholy when his near constant companions from the last months disappeared into a flash of light, but he knew he needed some alone time to make sure everything was screwed on straight. Freyr took it as a personal challenge to include Clint in everything in which the remaining wedding party was engaged. At the point in the evening where Gerd suggested a moonlight ride on the terror-mounts that Clint recalled from the sorcerer hunt, he drew a line.

“I’m gonna stay in,” he insisted.

“The dance of the heavens is most spectacular in this season. From the mountaintops the very heartbeat of the universe may be sensed,” Freyr told him with expansive hand gestures.

“Heartbeat or not, I’ve had enough of being cold and climbing mountains. I’m staying by the stove tonight.”

“As you will, friend Hawk,” Freyr replied. Gerd gave him a look that suggested she thought he was a weakling and below her consideration, but Clint didn’t care. He set himself up by one of the huge stoves in the central hall, still arrayed for guests and visitors, for some prime people watching.

Sif settled down next to him some time later. They had grown close in an odd way during his transformation. She was one of the only people who could understand him who was reliably available to talk with, and their conversations had been surprising intimate for two self-contained warriors. He remembered long afternoons, sprawled on her belly and chest, staring into her bright, clear eyes as they exchanged stories. It felt almost wrong, now, to be nearly of a height with her. She seemed to read some of his unease in his expression, and leaned their shoulders together.

“How’s it hangin’, gorgeous?” he asked. Her lips curved into a smirk. He had done a lot towards educating Sif on Midgardian slang, and it was something of a private joke between the two of them. Renewing it reminded them both that as much as things had changed, they were both essentially the same.

“Righteously, my brother,” she replied, her smirk breaking into a grin. “Though I confess that since my brethren have left, the cold has sunk into my bones and is loathe to be expelled.”

“I hear ya.” Clint scootched closer to the stove, feeling its searing heat on one side and the chill of the air on his other.

“I have heard of springs of warm water which the locals use for bathing,” Sif commented, almost conversationally except for the mischievous glint in her eye.

“Yeah?” Clint asked. She nodded. “I might know where such a place exists,” he replied, playing the same coy game with her.

“Then would you lead us there that we might thaw our bones?”

Natasha had sent go-bags along for everyone, so Clint had adequate cold-weather gear for the trek outside now that he was no longer covered with plushy fur. He bundled up and met Sif at the great hall's entrance. The guards there gave Clint a suspicious look. "We're going to the hot springs. Send someone after to fish us out if we don't come back?" The guards responded only with confused looks. Even back to his regular size they were dauntingly large.

Sif met him and strode out towards the outlands, trusting Clint would follow.

He had to crouch down a few times and peer at the landscape from a lower perspective to get their direction correct, but he led Sif to the hot springs where he and Darcy had met Gerd. Everything was different. Everything was the same. Everything was darker. The smells weren't as sharp, and he couldn't feel the roughness and cold of the earth below his paws.

Sif was looking at him with a lazy sort of anticipation, as though she didn't want to begin without him and could sense he was working through something. He bent to unlace his boots, and she did the same. Sif undressed more quickly than Clint, shrugging out of her cloak and coat, and pulling a few layers of underclothes off all together. She was gloriously, astoundingly naked for a brief moment before she slipped into the water.

In that moment, Clint had time to take in the muscled curve of her buttocks, the line of her thighs and calves, and the almost delicate arch of her bare feet. There was time for the sweep of her hips and the supple rise and peak of her breasts to become etched on his mind. The burn of icy cold was the only thing that brought him back to himself. Sif glanced over her shoulder, eyes running from his shoulders to his toes and back again. Her smile was slow and meaningful, and left Clint blushing like he hadn’t since he was a teenager. He yanked of his remaining clothes and left them in a haphazard heap to splash into the water.

It burned as hotly as the cold had just moments before. He hissed and bobbed up and down in the water, his nerves confused and sending simply “pain” to his brain. Sif’s hand on his shoulder, rough but soothing, settled him. She smoothed her hands down his arms in a rubbing gesture which calmed his nerve endings. When the pain signals had subsided to warm tingling he grinned up at her.

Clint wasn’t a huge guy. He was by no means a waif, but he had gotten moderately used to being around Captain America and Thor, and not being even close to the largest person in a room. Sif was half a head taller than him, but after so long being a cat around her, that little bit of difference didn’t seem like anything at all.

“This is weird,” Clint said, aroused, and confused, and lost because he could no longer curl up, tail tucked under the curve of her breast, nose to chin with a friend he hadn’t really realized he’d made.

“Philip expressed some difficulty adjusting to his new, old form as well. Come; it need not be so strange between us.” Sif settled on a stone outcropping in the pool, obviously worn to smoothness from millennia of similar use.

“You talked with Phil?” Clint asked, eyes drawn to the pale outline of her breasts as they dipped below the water’s surface. That line of thought led invariably to the sweep of her collarbone, and the muscles of her neck, sculpted by hours on the practice yard and the field of combat, and up to her smiling face.

“I did not ask you to join me to talk about the Son of Coul. Come.” Her fingers brushed against his under the water. They caught and tangled, and she pulled him inexorably towards her resting spot.

As a cat he had spent hours standing watch atop Sif, body draped over her from sternum to navel. Her hand would travel from his crown to his rump in soothing strokes. He recalled that feeling fondly, and instinctively curled around her, legs intertwining, his head resting just under her collar bone. Her left arm curled around him, squeezing them together while her right moved to the base of his neck and stroked down his spine.

He dozed off and awoke a few times. The residual effects of his hangover and his transformation were still effecting his stamina, and the day had been long. In their sleep he and Sif had interlocked limbs, holding tightly onto each other in the steamy warmth. Clint woke to the steady sound of Sif’s heartbeat in his ear. Her fingers were tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tensing and relaxing sporadically.

She smelled right, even with a backdrop of sulfur and minerals. She sounded right. She felt right against his skin, soft and hard and solid. Her inner thigh slid up his outer thigh, and he became aware of just how much of their skin was touching.

Like some choreographed dance they had learned long ago, Sif tipped his head back just as he looked up at her, and he slid up her body just as she pulled him close, and their lips met in a lazy, languid kiss. One or both of them rumbled in contentment, and it didn’t matter which because the feel of that rumble resonated between their bodies. Clint untangled their legs so he could straddle Sif, and gripped her hips with his thighs so his hands were free to roam. His palms ran over her back and down to her waist, up to cup her breasts and tease her nipples, and finally followed the straight lines of her neck to cup her jaw so he could focus on kissing her as thoroughly as he could remember kissing anybody.

Her hands were not unoccupied, traversing every inch and seeming to take special interest in every nick and scar his skin had to offer. “You have truly lived through much, Clinton Barton,” Sif said during a breathless pause.

“Hey now, don’t take that as—”

“I _like_ a warrior who survives against all odds,” Sif growled. “I feel you rising eager to the occasion; do not leave your hands idle.” Sif spread her legs suggestively, and went back to the serious business of kissing. Clint skated his palms back to Sif’s breasts and kneaded lightly, pinching her nipples erect. Her whole body shuddered under his and her kisses got sloppier. Sif took him by the wrist, and directed his hand to her entrance. “Tease me further at your own peril, Hawk,” she warned, her own hand traveling to caress his balls briefly and grasp his shaft. He traced her labia with gentle fingers, tickling her clitoris before stroking back down and into her. They both groaned, Sif as he pressed up into the silky warmth of her, and Clint as she pumped his shaft and ran her thumb over his head.

They worked each other with fingers and palms and kissed so long Clint was lightheaded. They were warm and alive, and Clint couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing with his newly regained digits than burying them in this beautiful, terrifying woman and making her moan and pant and shudder.

“You’re amazing,” Clint told Sif, kissing down her neck. “You’re so beautiful,” he added, mouthing over her nipple. They were both thrusting helplessly into the other’s hand. 

Sif came, clenching like velvet-cloaked iron on his fingers with her shudders of pleasure, her cries breathless and completely without shame. Clint came a few endless moments later, the sensation of pleasure and safety and completion overwhelming his consciousness. He blinked heavily into Sif’s dazed smirk.

“You are as skilled with your hands as any could have suspected,” she told him with a self-satisfied air. She ran her hand down his back and the sensation soothed him to boneless contentment as they curled around one another again.

Clint had never been much of a cuddler with his former sexual partners. A history of nightmares, dislike of vulnerability, and a general lack of trust with everyone, ever, meant he rarely settled down enough to get to sleep with another person in his bed. Sif was different. He had spent so many afternoons asleep curled into the Asgardian warmth of her that her scent and the soft-firm feeling of her skin over muscle was as comforting as a lullaby.

The feeling of waking, wrapped around another person and ensconced in her arms in turn was even better than he had imagined. He stretched, long and glorious, and Sif did the same. It was the middle of Jotun night, bitterly cold beyond the springs, but within their steamy world, everything felt perfect.


	43. Porn Coda: explicit

Sif seemed enchanted by the aerie Clint had made for himself, rather than confused or disgruntled. The space he had claimed was actually an area used by servants to refill the massive oil drums which fueled the lamps illuminating the feast halls. They got breakfast foods and snuck back up to his nest to watch the hall go about its morning business. Just once, Gymir cast a glance in Clint’s direction, and he was sure she was looking right at him, shrewd but permissive. Sif confessed she was not comfortable amongst the frost giants, even with the truce and the marriage.

“I have slain many of their kind and were I them, I would not hold it against them should they want my flesh in turn.”

Clint shrugged. “They seem pretty decent in general; a little more grind your bones than most folks are where I come from, but hey, they’re upfront about what they think of you.”

“Aye, that may be said.” Sif snorted and leaned back against a huge roof support, legs splayed in a comfortable sprawl on either side of a cross beam. Clint was sprawled on his back along the cross beam in a position which he _thought_ should be comfortable, but which was not anywhere near as nice while human as it was while he was a cat.

“I miss my tail.”

Sif raised her eyes. “That is what you think on?” she asked, a hint of amusement coloring her words.

“My tail was awesome. You spent long enough fondling it.” Clint rolled to his belly and crawled towards Sif. “I know you had a thing for it. All soft and long and—”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. “Now that you are a man there are other soft lengths for me to fondle as you have found,” she replied.

“Mm, is that so?” Clint asked, scooting up between her legs and kissing the tops of her breasts, running his tongue along the velvety soft skin that made up her decolletage.

“That is so. The Lady Darcy gave me ‘Midgardian Rainslickers’ if you desire to do more than rut.” Clint frowned at her in confusion. Sif fished one from a pouch and waved it under Clint’s nose.

“Yes. Yes we should do that. We should do that now. If— you want to, right? You wouldn’t be—”

“I enjoy your sexual verve, Clinton Barton. Our mutual pleasure shall ring throughout the rafters of this hall.”

“Well I don’t know about—” Sif raised a meaningful eyebrow at Clint. “Yes ma’am, whatever you say.” Clint nosed between her breasts and ran his hands down to her thighs, rucking up her skirts and underclothes. She shivered at the skin he exposed. Clint ducked under her skirts, pulling them down behind him to keep in the warmth. The cave of cloth he made for himself smelled strongly of woman and arousal. The air was humid, and the scent hit a deep place in Clint’s brain that said _safe_ and _comfort_ so assuredly that he was drunk on that alone. His hands moved along her inner thighs until they hit coarse hairs. He parted her outer lips and employed every trick he knew combining mouth and tongue and fingers to make her squirm and pant. Her thighs wrapped around the crossbeam, her knees gripping it in a resolute hold to give him access to her most sensitive parts.

He stroked her, laved her clitoris with his tongue, and worked his fingers within her until she was trembling under his ministrations. Sif's fingers settled lightly over the crown of his head but it seemed to be a fond, rather than guiding gesture. Sif hummed and moaned with pleasure, peppering her noises with words of affirmation as he gave his tongue and fingers free rein. He'd almost forgotten about her hand until it tugged sharply.

"Enough." Clint scrambled out from under her skirts.

"Was that—"

"It was most excellent. I merely wish to come to my moment of pleasure by the force of your manhood rather than the cleverness of your tongue. You seemed a man fine-formed and I wish to be speared by your shaft."

That was simultaneously a lot more euphemism and a lot more direct than most of Clint's sexual encounters. Now that he thought about it, his cock was quite eager to enact Sif's suggestion. "How do you want me?" Clint asked, rising to his knees. Sif nodded her head towards the opposite side of the support beam she was splayed on. The way the cross beams were set if he lay back he would be in a semi-recline. Sif seemed like a woman who would like to be on top. He scooted back until he was pressed against stone and ice. He didn't know how Sif hadn't started shivering while he ate her out. "You have the—"Clint started to ask.

Sif held up a strip of condoms with a raised eyebrow. "You will freeze as you are. Rise." She fiddled with something at her waist, and with a tug, pulled all her skirts off entirely leaving her covered only by the hanging tails of her blouse.

"That's a nice trick."

"They were made thus for changing from court garb to that appropriate for riding or battle, but there are other uses." Sif lay the skirts under Clint and settled between his legs, hand reaching for his fly. Clint beat her to it, flipping the buttons and shimmying out of his trousers in record time, pulling his underwear with them. It was cold, but Sif didn't wait for the chill to seep into him. She pushed forward, nipples rubbing against him as she boxed him in, hands planted behind his head demanding a kiss. She rubbed against him, belly against cock, breasts against his chest, and Clint groaned.

"Condoms," Clint demanded into her mouth, hand waving. She deposited the strip in his waiting hand. His thumbs felt overly large as he ripped open the packaging, and he had to double-check he was putting it on the right way. He didn't feel too bad at his inept movements because Sif was really, really distracting, and more than a bit vicious. She bit the skin under his jaw and sucked the skin down his neck. Her hands anchored in his hair and ran down his shoulders and back, kneading into the corded muscle there. He checked the fit and said, "We're good."

Her hand ran down his chest, feeling his abs and picking up the scraggly trail of hair under his bellybutton, following that to his cock. She gripped him, fingertips light but sure, and raised her eyebrows as though for permission. "Go ahead. Please," he added after a long moment. Sif met his eyes with a pleased smirk, and their bodies slid together with surprising synchronicity. "Oh damn," Clint cursed, hips twitching and mind going numb with sensation. Sif smirked even wider, rocking slowly on him and testing angles.

She stretched, long and lean over him, and he reached towards her breasts, kneading and pulling a nipple into his mouth. Her thighs squeezed him tightly, and her inner walls provided a pleasantly slick friction on his cock. She was surprisingly gentle, for all that she still nipped at his ears and throat, rocking in a steady rhythm that brought them both towards orgasm without the frenetic feeling of rutting in the hot springs. His hands moved from her breasts to the small of her back, and from there to grip her buttocks. Through his fingers he could feel the swell and release of muscles, and he could sense the building tension in her thighs as her pace quickened and became a little irregular.

He traced the crease of her hip, matching thrusts, until he got fingers between them, and searched for her clitoris. She found his fingers and ground down on them with something between a groan and a cry, her lip caught between her teeth and her eyes closed as she focused on the sensation. Her noises went directly to some deep part of his brain which was hooked directly into his anatomy. Everything within him shouted, _yes_ and _more_ , and he raked the blunt nails of his free hand over her flank, knowing it would hurt a little and suspecting she would like that. Sif moaned and came, head dropping forward and hair falling dark and liquid around her. She panted and grinned into his face. "You acquit yourself well, Hawk," she told him, voice shaky. She took a deep breath which caused her breasts to sway in Clint's face. "But come; you have not found your completion. Do you prefer another positioning? Thor tells me some Midgardians prefer it in the manner of the hounds."

Clint blinked, mind fogged with arousal and sensation, and attempted to process that. "Doggy style?" he asked. Sif nodded. Now that she mentioned it, the thought of staring down the long line of her back and gripping her hips while he fucked her actually sounded amazing. "Yeah. Get up and flip around." 

Sif did so, stretching forward and displaying herself for him. As soon as she felt the tip of his cock at her entrance, she shifted her hips back, taking him in one smooth stroke. He groaned. She felt amazing and she looked amazing and for all he had felt clumsy and awkward since his transformation back to human, sex was fluid and comfortable and _amazing_ and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to find the words to thank her for that feeling; for knowing that sensation of surety would come back to him in time.

He gripped her hips and fucked her. Sif was much more pliant after her first orgasm, and seemed perfectly willing to let him set the pace, meeting his thrusts with little huffs, as though his cock was forcing the air out of her lungs. She craned around to meet his eye, and her lazy grin was an affirmation he hadn't known he'd sought. He came soon after, his orgasm blinding and deafening and overwhelming in a way that was more than purely physical. "Oh my god," Clint moaned, draping himself down Sif's back, hips pressed to her butt. "You are amazing. That was amazing. Oh my god."

He felt Sif's chuckle more than heard it, through the rushing in his ears. She oozed forward and rolled them to their sides. Clint pulled out and took care of the condom, one arm wrapping around Sif's belly and the other pillowing under his head. She allowed him to make her the little spoon.

They both dozed off again, but they startled awake with a particularly boisterous cheer from a group of frost giants below. Sif turned enough to kiss Clint almost chastely, and rose. She draped some of the blankets from his nest over him, and ran her fingers over his skull like she had when he was a cat. He leaned into it, feeling a little silly but craving the familiar gesture enough he didn't care. "I have business to tend, but seek me out if you would like further entertainment," Sif told him quietly. He tried to struggle upright but her hand on his shoulder calmed him to stillness. "Transformations are most taxing; rest yourself."

Clint burrowed into the blankets and dozed off again to the sound of the seemingly never ending wedding celebrations.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, questions, comments, and concrit are appreciated. I'm so happy you decided to come on this journey with me and I do so hope you enjoyed it.


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